


Dying Ember, Rekindled Flame

by Madame (McKay)



Series: The Monkees Soap Opera [16]
Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 05:58:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10915743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKay/pseuds/Madame
Summary: Old emotions are stirred up by conflict, and Mike, Isabel and Peter find themselves immersed in a familiar situation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 1999.

The waves pounded against the shore, higher and more fierce than usual due to the storms that had plagued the area recently—much like the ones that had raged in Isabel's soul in the weeks since she had agreed to give Mike the second chance he claimed he wanted.

She gazed out over the whitecaps, the evening breeze tossing her silver hair in her face and chilling her to the bone, but she didn't even flinch; the cold that assailed her now was a mere physical chill, and it was nothing compared to the wall of ice that had been growing around her heart. 

They had agreed to remain at her beach house until either they worked things out to a degree that she felt comfortable returning to their home in New Mexico, or until they decided to part ways—for good this time. At least, she thought with a wry smile, it gave her a home turf advantage.

She knew she wasn't making this easy, and part of her _did_ want to make a genuine effort to patch up their marriage.

And the _other_ part of her wanted his head on a stake.

While the two warring halves duked it out, she remained distant, feeling herself withdrawing from him emotionally further and further with every day that passed but helpless to do anything about it. And growing less and less certain that she wanted to. 

Part of it was that she simply could _not_ understand why he'd had an affair to begin with. If he'd been unhappy, he should have said something, and they could have dealt with it one way or another. That way, she—and their son—would have been spared the agony of betrayal. And then when he _did_ try to explain, he had to use the oldest, lamest excuse in the book: mid-life crisis. He was feeling _old_ , he said. He wanted to recapture part of his youth, he said.

She let out a derisive snort. One would think that with his creative ability, he would have come with a slightly more original excuse.

"Isabel."

His husky tenor voice carried to her on the wind, and she whirled around, startled by the sudden intrusion. Staring at him accusingly as if he'd deliberately frightened her, she faced him, her features set in taut lines.

"Sorry," he said, acknowledging he'd scared her. He shoved his hands in his pockets and ambled over to stand by the rail near her but not close enough to establish any kind of physical contact.

Oh, no, she thought bitterly. He hadn't laid a hand on her since he'd moved back in. He had settled in the guest room of his own accord, which damaged her pride even more. She didn't have any intention of sharing a bedroom with him yet, but she would have felt better if he had at least _asked_. He never tried to touch her or hold her or _anything_ , and she felt even more unattractive and undesirable than ever as a result of his distance. 

"Anything you care to discuss?" he asked mildly, not looking at her. He directed his gaze at the beach, seeming to be engrossed in watching a cluster of seagulls fight over some kelp that had washed up on shore. 

"We've been over everything before..." she sighed, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. They'd spent countless hours rehashing every last detail, and still nothing had been resolved. Perhaps it never would be...

"And you still don't trust me. You don't believe I don't plan to run right out and have another affair."

"No, I don't!" she snapped, her temper fraying for the thousandth time since his return. "Nothing you've said helps me understand why you did it in the first place."

He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, they were remote as if he were focused on something far in the distance—or far within.

"I can't tell you anything more than I already have," he said at last, his tone one of resignation, almost defeat. 

"Did you love her?" Isabel demanded suddenly, turning to face him, her eyes searching his face as if she were trying to make sure he was telling the truth.

"No." His response was quiet but firm, and she was convinced he meant it.

"Did she love you?" she asked, less vehemently this time.

"I don't know." He shrugged and gave a wintry smile. "You'll have to ask _her_ about that."

"I'll pass, thanks," she replied with a contemptuous toss of her head.

"She never said she did," he added. "But I don't know if it's because she really didn't or because she knew I didn't want to hear it."

He fell silent a moment, then bent his head, still not looking directly at Isabel. "I used her," he admitted in a low voice. "I tried to soak up her youth, her energy, thinkin it would give me back my own, but—" He trailed off with a rueful shrug.

"If she was giving you this—energy," Isabel began slowly, leaning her hip against the wood rail as she gazed steadily at him, her arms folded across her chest. "Why did you come back to _me_?"

"I missed the security we shared," he said, looking directly at her for the first time since the conversation began. "The stability. I missed _you_. While we were separated, I realized I'd lost my best friend—the person I trust with my life."

I lost the same thing, she thought. A wave of melancholy swept over her as she realized that she _still_ didn't have either her best friend or her lover back; he was as lost to her now as he had been the entire six months they were separated. 

And nowhere in there had he said anything about love.

"Your comfortable old shoe, you mean," she sneered. "You're no more satisfied than you were before, are you? You're just settling."

"It's not that simple—" he began, then cut himself off with a disgusted snort. "Look, there's no sense in gettin into all this again. Like you said, we've been over it all before. I just came out to tell you I'm goin over to Rob's for a while. He's got some new tunes he wants me to look at."

"You two sure kissed and made up fast." Isabel folded her arms, her expression belligerent. He'd inadvertently provoked the fight, and now he wanted to walk away from it—?

" _Rob_ doesn't hold grudges," he replied, his tone calm, his expression dispassionate as he watched her begin to pace the length of the deck. "He yelled at me for the better part of an hour, then let it go."

" _Rob_ is the son who idolizes you," she retorted, her eyes flashing with anger. "Not the wife who caught you screwing another woman."

With that, she stalked into the house, heading up to her bedroom, but she never made it to the stairs; she heard his rapid footsteps behind her, but she ignored them—until he grabbed her arm and spun her around, making her face him.

" _What_ is it goin to take?" he demanded, fire smoldering in his dark eyes as he glared down at her. "I have _tried_ to explain the best I can, but you can't—or won't—understand any of it. I've tried to apologize, to show you I'm serious about puttin our marriage back together. How much am I goin to have to grovel at the ice queen's feet before she'll condescend to forgive me?"

"Is that what you think this is all about?" she shot back, matching him glare for glare. "I'm deliberately punishing you?"

"That's what it feels like on this end," he replied, still not releasing her arm even after she attempted to tug free. Instead, his fingers tightened their grip, sending her the clear message that she wasn't going anywhere until _he_ decided the conversation was over. "Why else are you refusin to meet me so much as a quarter of the way, much less half?" 

"And you don't think I have a _right_ after what you put me through?" 

"Vindictiveness doesn't suit you, Isa," he replied in a calmer, quieter tone. 

"And arrogance has _never_ suited you," she retorted. "You brought this on yourself, remember?" 

"How can I forget? You won't let me!" he exclaimed. "I took responsibility for my actions—my mistake, my screw-up, whatever you want to call it—weeks ago. I'm tryin to make amends, but I can't do it alone." 

She was tempted—oh, so tempted—to give in. To accept what he said and to put the past aside and let him back into her heart. The words rose in her throat, hovered on her lips—and died, killed by a wave of panic that made her struggle like a wild thing to escape his grasp. 

She would _not_ be hurt like that again! She would not leave herself open and vulnerable to be emotionally devastated. Another betrayal—another wound—would be fatal, and she was not ready to risk herself. Not so soon. Not without understanding how he could have turned traitor to their marriage. 

"Let me go!" she hissed, writhing and yanking her arm in a vain attempt to free herself. 

"Is that really what you want?" 

A question within a question, but she was in no mood for games. 

"Yes, damn you!" she cried, wrenching herself free at last, realizing belatedly that it was only because he'd allowed it. "Leave me alone—I can't bear to look at you now—" 

"Liar." 

One word. Softly spoken. But it cut through her furious blustering as effectively as if he'd shouted it through a bullhorn. 

"You forget who you're talkin to, Isa," he continued in that deceptively soft, reasonable tone. "You're not angry. You're afraid." 

"Of _you_?" she scoffed with more vehemence than she actually felt. "Don't flatter yourself." 

"It's not an idle boast, and we both know it." 

Her breath suddenly caught in her lungs when he moved forward, removing all but a hair's-breadth of space between them, and she fought to remain calm, to still the trembling she felt beginning to permeate her body. Without touching her, he bent until his face was level with her own, and she quelled the urge to back off, knowing it would be a sign of weakness; instead, she looked down, refusing to meet his eyes. But that didn't mean she couldn't feel his relentless gaze on _her_. 

He remained poised there for endless moments, his lips a breath away from hers, and she suffered exquisite torture as she waited for him to move back...or to kiss her. Her insides quivered with anticipation, and her mind whirled, trying to hash out how she would react if he _did_. 

"When you're ready to stop runnin," he murmured, "I'll be here." 

And with that, he straightened, looking as unruffled as if the whole encounter had never happened, and walked away. Isabel watched him go, clutching the solid oak stair rail for support as she fought to gather the tattered remains of her aloof facade around her once more. 

~*~*~ 

"Hi, sweetheart!" Peter's voice instantly filled with enthusiasm when she identified herself, and she smiled slightly, pleased with her decision. 

After the argument with Mike, she'd retreated to her bedroom and curled up around a pillow, staring blankly at the wall as she tried to sort out her jumbled emotions. In the end, only one thing stood out clear: she wanted to talk to Peter. And so she'd matched desire to deed and called him on her private phone line in her room where she wouldn't be overheard. 

"How're things going?" he asked. "None of us have heard anything, so we were assuming no news is good news." 

"Not in _this_ case," she informed him grimly. 

He fell silent a moment, and when he spoke again, his tone was soft and gentle. "You want to talk about it?" 

"There's not much to say," she replied, feeling depression settle like a lead weight on her chest. "We're going around in circles, not settling anything. And that's not why I called you anyway." 

"Oh?" His voice contained a hint of amusement now, and she could picture the smile that must be accompanying his tone. "Why did you then?" 

"To be cheered up," she said. 

"You're not asking much, are you?" he teased. 

"Just talk to me about anything except the woeful state of my marriage, and I'll be satisfied." 

"Okay..." he drew out the word, laughing openly now. "How about this? Ian sent me a new tape— _and_ some good news. They've landed a gig at one of the hottest nightclubs in LA." 

"Where?" Isabel sat up straight, clutching the phone. Rob, of course, hadn't mentioned any of this to her, and she was confident that if Mike knew this already, he wouldn't have kept it from her. 

Peter mentioned a name, and Isabel's eyes went wide. "You must be joking!" she exclaimed, bouncing up and down on her bed out of sheer excitement. "Oh, that's _great_!" 

"Isn't it?" he replied, pride saturating his voice. "This could be it for them. The break they've been waiting for." 

"I hope so," she said fervently. "They've worked so hard..." 

The next few minutes were spent effusing over the brilliance and talent of their respective offspring, a discussion that gradually drifted to other topics; before she realized it, an hour had passed, and her ear was beginning to ache from the pressure of the phone despite the fact that she'd shifted the receiver regularly throughout the conversation. 

"Oh, Peter—I'm sorry," she said at last. "I didn't realize it was getting so late. I guess I'd better let you get off the phone." 

"Nonsense." His warm chuckle felt like a soothing balm to her soul. "I enjoyed it, or I would've gotten off long ago." He paused, and in a slightly hesitant tone added, "You wouldn't care to do this in person, would you?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"Have lunch with me," he blurted all in a rush as if he felt he had to get the words out quickly if he were to get them out at all. 

Isabel stared blankly at the wall, stunned into silence for a moment. Normally the idea of meeting him or Micky or Davy for lunch would be no big deal; she'd done it often with and without Mike. But this...His tone, his attitude...There was something different... 

"Sure," she found herself answering him in a soft, almost breathy voice. "When?" 

"How's Thursday? Around one o'clock? At Maxim's?" he suggested, naming a restaurant he knew she was particularly fond of. 

"Sounds great. I'll be there." 

"Wonderful. I'll see you then. Good night, sweetheart." 

"Good night," she whispered, uncertain if he even heard her as he hung up. 

Sleep eluded her for a long time afterward, a bloom of anticipation and excitement such as she hadn't felt in ages keeping her wide-eyed and alert into the wee hours of the morning. 

~*~*~ 

“So, how’s it going?” Peter smiled warmly up at her as she approached the tiny table for two tucked away in a dimly lit—intimate—corner at Maxim's, a small but exceptionally good restaurant that Isabel had discovered some years ago and had frequented regularly ever since; she'd also advertised it widely not only through word-of-mouth but also through dragging people there with her—and Mike, of course—and as a result, Peter and Micky dined there all the time, and most of the kids were hooked as well. 

“Do you really need to ask?” Isabel gave him a rueful look, and he shook his head, his expression radiating sympathy. 

“Sorry to hear it, sweetheart,” he said quietly. 

“Ah, well...” She flipped her hair off her shoulder as she sat down across from him and slung her purse over the back of her chair. “I’m getting used to it at this point. Get up, fight with Mike, try to work on the new manuscript, fight with Mike, storm out of the room in a huff, cry in my pillow, go back downstairs, fight some more...” She let her words trail off, laughing a little to let him know things weren’t quite that bad. But it was close, and they both knew it. 

“You weren’t fussing this much in the beginning,” he reminded her, and she inclined her head in agreement. 

“We were too busy being excrutiatingly careful and polite,” she pointed out wryly. “We’re past that stage now. And Mike’s getting impatient. He thinks I’m deliberately punishing him and dragging out the process just for spite.” 

“He _said_ that?” he exclaimed, surprise blooming on his face, and she nodded. 

“Not in so many words, but that’s what he meant.” She sighed and picked up her napkin, fiddling restlessly with it. “Neither of us can understand where the other one is coming from, and we’ve hit an impasse.” 

“Have you thought about marriage counseling?” 

“We’ve talked about it, but Mike hates the idea of discussing our personal problems with a complete stranger, and I don’t see what good it would do. _He_ can’t help me understand how it happened; I don’t see how anyone else could either.” 

She crumpled her napkin in her fingers as she spoke, a nervous gesture that accomplished little except to wrinkle the cloth; it certainly didn’t soothe her nerves, which were keeping her in such a state of agitation that she was amazed she was able to sit still for so long. If she could’ve, she would have been bouncing off the nearest wall. 

“Yeah,” Peter gave a mirthless laugh. “Trina and I went for counseling, and you see where that ended up.” 

Isabel glanced up at him and snorted. “Thanks. I feel _much_ better now.” 

“Sorry.” He flashed that dimpled smile at her, and she instantly forgave him. “I didn’t mean to imply you and Mike will—” 

“But I think we might,” she interrupted, her voice low but intense, and Peter fell silent, gaping at her with open-mouthed shock. 

“I thought—I thought you’d worked past that,” he stammered at last. “I thought you were both committed to fixing things.” 

“Mike seems to be,” she replied with a negligent shrug. “As for myself...the jury’s still out.” 

“Isabel, no—you can’t just give up on thirty years together—” 

“ _I_ am not the one who threw our marriage—the vows we made to each other--out the window!” she snarled, trying to keep her voice low so they wouldn’t attract the attention of nearby patrons, but anger was making her volume rise of its own accord. 

“I know, but still...” Peter trailed off, his expression troubled and concerned all at once. 

“My trust is gone,” she continued in a more subdued tone. “I have no idea how to get it back.” 

“Do you still love him?” he asked softly, and she jerked her head up to meet his eyes. 

They stared wordlessly at one another for a prolonged moment, and then Isabel lowered her lashes, averting her face slightly as she whispered, “I don’t know.” 

She expected Peter to say something, to assure her that she was merely confused and that she should know deep down that she did still feel just as strongly for Mike as she ever did, and perhaps part of her would believe him. 

But Peter remained silent. Instead, he reached out and covered her hand with his own. She felt the warmth of his skin, the strength in his gentle grasp, and that alone was more soothing than any words could have been. She laced her fingers with his, squeezing slightly, and he caressed the back of her hand with his thumb, sending tiny flutters along her nerve endings. 

Glancing at him again, she was surprised by the intensity she saw glowing in the light brown depths of his eyes, and it wasn’t until much later—after she was home—that she realized were it not for the table separating them at that moment, he probably would have kissed her. 

And she would have let him. 

~*~*~ 

Isabel sat at her vanity table, staring blankly into the mirror, not seeing herself or much of anything else. It had been two days since their latest disagreement, and since then, they'd been scrupulously courteous to each other, but the chasm that loomed between them seemed to have widened yet again, and she was beginning to fear that they would never be able to cross it. 

And that she was beginning to _want_ to cross it less and less.

Letting out a prolonged, despondent breath, she sifted through the items scattered on the marble top—perfume bottles, lipstick tubes, barrettes, hair combs and the like—and picked up her brush, running it through her hair as her mind wandered, preoccupied by all the sudden changes she'd had to live through lately. She could still scarcely believe Mike was back—an affair, six months apart, and now he wanted to put their marriage together again.

What she couldn't grasp was _why_ , and he hadn't explained his reasons in a way that made sense to her.

He had taken up with a younger woman because she made him feel young again himself. So where did that leave Isabel? She was old too—only a year younger than he was. And she looked it, she thought with disgust as she focused on her image in the mirror.

She saw a fifty-one-year-old woman with grey hair—no trace of the original dark brown remained anymore—crow's feet around her eyes, grooves lining her mouth, and everything seemed to suddenly be at the mercy of gravity. She had always tried to keep her weight down and her muscles toned, so she was still firm in places. But there were _other_ places that insisted on sagging despite her best efforts.

What was attractive about _that_? she snorted. No _wonder_ he wanted a younger, beautiful girl! How could he—or any man—desire her now, looking the way she did?

"What's wrong?"

She was so lost in thought that the question, softly spoken as it was, still startled her, and she jumped, her heart racing as she twisted around on her stool to see Mike leaning against the doorframe and watching her, visibly concerned.

"I was just—thinking," she replied, turning to face the mirror again. She began brushing her hair again, but with more vigor this time.

"Looked pretty serious." He pushed himself away from the doorway and moved to stand directly behind her, so close that she could feel his warmth, his presence. It was all she could do not to lean back just the slightest bit—that's all it would take to touch him—and establish contact with more than just their auras. 

And then she wished she had closed her bedroom door so he wouldn't be there in the first place.

"May I?" he asked, capturing the hand that held her brush.

Mutely, she nodded, and he removed the brush from her unresisting fingers, taking over the job for her—as he had done countless times before—smoothing it through her hair in long, even strokes. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, giving herself over to the pleasure of the moment.

He had always teased her about being a closet sensualist, hiding her true nature under a facade of cool reserve which only _he_ knew was a fake. And she had to admit he was right. With him, she had reveled in the delight to be found at his hands—and her own. Touch had always been important to her even outside of the bedroom, which would have shocked anyone who knew her given her reputation for being somewhat stand-offish. 

But the truth was, she couldn't even go shopping without running her hands over the fabrics, especially the more luxurious types like cashmere, velvet, chenille.

And she had always _loved_ having her hair brushed, a sensual indulgence she relished—especially when _he_ was the one doing it.

That he would ask now seemed like such an intimate gesture on his part, and for the first time, she began to think he was serious about putting things together. But the question still remained.

Why?

"You're broodin about something," he stated. He knew her too well for it to be a question.

She opened her eyes, and their gazes locked in the mirror; he never broke his rhythm as he ran the brush—and his fingers—through her hair.

"I was willing to give you a no-contest, no money-gouging divorce," she countered bluntly. "And you refused. You as good as said the other day that you weren't any more satisfied now than you were before, so what's keeping you here? I mean, it's not like you could still find me attractive—"

"Why couldn't I?" he interrupted, appearing genuinely puzzled as he looked steadily at her reflection, and she rolled her eyes, throwing up her hands as if she couldn't believe he'd asked such an idiotic question. Which she couldn't.

"Look at me!" she exclaimed, thumping her fists on the vanity top hard enough to make all her feminine clutter rattle. 

"I _am_ ," he replied quietly. "I like what I see."

"Oh, please. You must be more desperate than I thought."

"Stop that!" he ordered, his brows snapping together in a stern frown. "Quit talkin like you're some shriveled up old hag."

"Well, I'm not a twenty-year-old with perky boobs and a tight butt either."

"Yeah, and I'm not the scrawny stork _you_ married," he shot back. "We've both changed."

"I just feel so _old_ all of a sudden..." she sighed, dropping her head under the weight of her depressing thoughts.

The brushing stopped.

"I understand."

When she looked in his eyes, at his somber, compassionate expression, she realized he was telling no more than the simple truth. It struck her that she had inadvertently echoed what he had told her on the theater stage that night several weeks ago when he had asked for a reconciliation in his own unique way. For the first time since their separation, she felt the stirrings of rapport with him, and she indulged her impulse to lean back and relax against him. He hesitated a moment, surprise blooming in his dark eyes, but he recovered quickly and, discarding the brush, slipped his arms around her shoulders, enclosing her in a protective, affectionate embrace.

In that instant, she felt as if someone had pressed the rewind button on her life and taken her back to the time when she didn't harbor doubts—not about herself or her marriage or her feelings. 

But then she remembered _why_ he understood so well, and reality slammed into her stomach—hard.

At least _she_ wouldn't make the same mistake!

And then memories of Peter—his kind eyes; his gentle hands; his warm, mobile lips—rose up unbidden, and her entire body turned to ice.


	2. Chapter 2

The day was already warm, promising to grow sultry by noon, and Isabel twisted her hair up to let the breeze cool off the back of her neck, holding the makeshift bun in place with one hand as she raised her face to the pale morning sun. For the moment, she forced all thoughts of her problems out of her mind; tranquility had been a stranger to her for months, and she needed a respite no matter how brief.

The double doors leading to the deck creaked open, and she heard Mike's unmistakable tread as he walked over to the rail; she expected him to stand next to her, but he did not. Instead, she felt his presence close behind her, and she went completely still, her breath trapped in her lungs as she waited for his next move. If he touched her, she didn't know what she would do; if he _didn't_ touch her, she didn't know what she would do.

She felt his fingers graze the back of her neck; he rested his hand in the curve between her neck and shoulder, lightly stroking her skin with his thumb, which sent tiny prickles down her spine in response.

And then her mind presented her with a memory of herself twenty years younger, wearing her oldest tee shirt and shorts, her hair coiled into an untidy knot as she puttered around the kitchen; he'd come up behind her and, pulling down her shirt collar, dropped a series of kisses from her hairline to just above her shoulderblades. She'd laughed at him, wondering aloud how he could get so enthusiastic when she looked like such a mess. There had been a naughty gleam in his eye when he informed her, completely straight-faced, that the back of her neck had a deadly effect on him. She'd taken pains to wear her hair up much more often after that...

She sighed and closed her eyes—and immediately she saw another image from the past, but not quite so pleasant.

A bed...a blonde...

Her whole body went tense as she wrenched herself free from his grasp and moved a step or two out of reach. A litany of silent curses sped through her brain; she knew she'd just ruined one of the few positive steps they'd taken, but as long as those memories haunted her, as long as she still saw those horrid visions every time she closed her eyes, she couldn't bear for him to touch her. 

This time, Mike was not so sanguine, muttering a vicious expletive before storming back inside, slamming the door shut behind him with enough force to make the walls rattle. Isabel hesitated for a moment, then slowly followed him, bracing herself for a confrontation—again.

"What do you want me to do?" he demanded as soon as she walked into the living room. 

She paused on the threshold, watching him impassively. His hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides, and his jaw was working as if he wanted to launch into a top-volume tirade and was literally having to bite it back. This had the potential to be one of his fist-through-the-wall temper fits, and she felt a tiny ripple of pleasure that he obviously cared enough to get _this_ angry. 

"It seems like every move I make these days is wrong. Tell me, Isabel—am I wastin my time here?" he continued, his voice low but underscored with tightly contained ire. "You want me to leave? I'll do it—I'll pack up and be out of here today—"

"Oh, stop it," she retorted wearily. "Don't act like I'm the one at fault here. I didn't ask for this reconciliation— _you_ did. I was perfectly willing to go ahead with the divorce. You were the one who decided to change your mind at the last minute."

All of a sudden, she felt nothing but a fatigue that seeped down to her bones, down to her very soul. She was tired of thinking about this, tired of talking about it. She just wanted a solution— _any_ solution. Anything bring the matter to a close...

"You agreed to it," he reminded her. "You made me think I had a fightin chance, but I might as well give up. You're throwin up walls every way I turn, and I don't know where to begin tryin to get through them."

"I don't know any other way to act!" she cried, suddenly rounding on him with a vehemence she hadn't felt since that night on the stage when she'd poured out all the venom she'd been bottling up in one vast, bubbling wave. "You have to give me time--"

"How _much_ time?" he countered. "It's already been over a month, and we're still right where we were the day we started!"

"I don't know..." She covered one side of her face with her hand and released a long, slow breath. "I'm just so confused—I don't even _know_ what I want anymore..."

"Look," he continued in a calmer, more patient tone. "I want to help. I'll give you all the time you need, but I need to know we're makin progress here—"

"I said I don't know!" she snapped, dropping her hand and glaring balefully at him. He'd created this mess, and now he wanted _her_ to solve it! Her throat closed up, an overwhelming feeling of suffocation welling up within her, and she made a break for the door, pausing just long enough to grab her keys from the hall table on her way out.

"Isabel—! Where are you going?"

"Out!" she yelled. If she didn't get away for a while, if she couldn't find a moment's respite, she felt she would go mad. 

"That's your solution to everything, isn't it?" he shouted after her. "Avoid the problem—avoid me! It's _not_ goin to go away, Isa!" 

Ignoring his taunts, she yanked the front door open and slammed it shut behind her, venting a little of her frustration that way—and then her heart twisted in her chest when she heard something shatter against the door from the inside. 

Oh, she'd done it now, she thought as she revved the car engine and sped down the street. There was no telling what she'd find when she returned—a trashed house, an _empty_ house.

But she couldn't worry about that now. She just needed to be somewhere else, somewhere safe—and she knew exactly where to find that desired haven...

~*~*~ 

If Peter kept to his old habits, now that the tour was over, he would be holed up in the renovated beach house, recuperating, relaxing, and—more than likely—starting to churn out another batch of songs for his next venture whether it was with the group or a solo flight. Without thinking twice, Isabel drove over there, speeding, running stop signs, and praying there wasn't a cop around to bust her for it.

As luck would have it, she arrived at 1334 Beechwood in one piece and without a ticket; she barely paused to lock the car and set the alarm before running across the yard and up the steps, alternately leaning on the bell and pounding on the door until she heard footsteps within.

"I'm coming!" Peter called, sounding a little grumpy, which considering her obnoxious summons, she supposed she could understand.

"Yes? What is—?" His expression instantly changed from borderline irritated to outright delight when he saw her, and he quickly caught her hand and pulled her inside as if she would run off if he didn't. "Isabel! What a nice surprise! I didn't expect to see you—"

Isabel watched silently as he closed and locked the front door behind them, then turned back to her, smiling cheerfully. The great load of misery that had been bearing down on her soul for the past few weeks suddenly rose up, nearly overpowering her, and she felt tears stinging her eyelids. But for once, she didn't try to blink them back. This was Peter, after all, and he would hold her and make everything all right again—

"Peter—" she whispered as the first salty drop poised on her lashes, then fell, rapidly followed by the rest of the waiting flood. 

"Isabel—sweetheart—what happened?" he crooned as he enfolded her in his arms and led her over to the couch.

She dropped heavily onto the middle of it, and he sat down beside her, keeping one arm around her shoulders. But that wasn't good enough. Instead, she crawled into his lap and, flinging her arms around his neck, wept on his shoulder, finally feeling safe enough to release all her despair and fear. He didn't question her actions; he simply wrapped both arms around her, stroking her back soothingly as she cried herself out. 

Long minutes passed before she was able to compose herself enough to answer his question, and she stammered out a watery, "H-he doesn't want _me_ ," she wailed at last. "He just wants his old sh-shoe!"

"Okay..." Peter stared down at her, both eyebrows raised in a look that clearly said he wasn't following a word she said, but he was willing to go along with it nonetheless.

Pushing herself up into a sitting position on his lap, Isabel exerted every bit of self-control she had and began to explain the situation to him as best she could.

"Nothing's changed, Peter," she told him, scrubbing away the last of her tears with the heels of both palms. "Part of the problem is that he's still not happy, still not satisfied, and neither am I anymore. There's something missing—something really important, but I don't know what it is." She gazed at him, her expression tragic. 

"What's the other part?" he asked.

Isabel gazed steadily into his light brown eyes, reading the compassion there and drawing strength from it. 

"You," she replied quietly, her tone and expression somber. She was taking a great emotional risk opening herself up like this, but she had to face the truth she'd been grappling with. "I've thought about you so often, Peter. Things have been different between us lately, and I keep remembering what happened—the kiss—"

Peter gaped at her, looking as if someone had just hit upside the head with a two-by-four, Isabel thought with some amusement. But finally he pulled himself together enough to interrupt, hushing her words with a single finger to her lips.

"Don't," he ordered—a soft tone, but a clear message. "Don't bring that up, don't tell me you've thought about it."

"Why? Because I'm not young and exciting enough for _you_ either?" she accused bitterly. She struggled to escape from his lap, but he tightened his arms around her, keeping her in place.

"No," he replied calmly. "That's not it at all."

"What then?" she demanded, still trying to get free, but Peter had kept himself in good physical shape all these years, and she may as well have been fighting against steel bands for all the good it did her.

"Even I have limits to my will power, Isabel," he rejoined, an edge in his voice that hadn't been there before.

She went completely still, gazing at him wide-eyed as she digested the implications of that simple statement.

"Does that mean—?" Her voice trailed off as she tentatively reached out and caressed his cheek, afraid to finish the question, afraid to hear his answer.

He captured her face between his hands, pulling her so close that their lips almost—but not quite—touched, but there he hesitated, and she could see the doubt clouding his eyes.

"Peter—" she murmured, nipping at his lower lip. "Kiss me again. There's no anger now."

"A kiss—won't be enough," he replied in a barely audible whisper. "Not this time—"

"Then don't stop."

He made a strangled noise in his throat, staring at her in mute amazement—but then he pulled her into a searing kiss, touching and caressing her as if he could scarcely believe she was real. She matched his fervor, feeling a rising wave of desire so strong and keen that it almost made her dizzy. She hadn't felt anything like it in years...

He pulled away suddenly, fixing her with a look of deadly seriousness unlike anything she'd ever seen on _his_ face before. 

"Is this really what you want?" he asked, and she knew he was giving her another chance to back out before things went too far. 

But deep down, she felt they already had. 

"Yes," she whispered, and scarcely were the words out of her mouth when he gathered her in his arms and stood up, heading for the stairs—and his bedroom. 

Once inside, he deposited her gently on the bed and sat down next to her, reaching to pull her into another hot, hungry kiss, and she whimpered softly at the rush of undiluted passion that swept over her; he ran his hands through her hair, over her back, lingering nowhere as he were trying to memorize and absorb as much as he could before she disappeared. 

Her fingers trembled as she reached for his shirt buttons, but she managed to unfasten them at last, and she nearly tore the fabric in her eager attempt to strip the shirt off him. Her head swam from the dizzying effect of his kisses as she trailed her fingers through the crinkly hair covering his chest, pausing to tease the erect nubs she felt hidden there, and exulting in the low groan he gave in response. 

She was wearing a lightweight black jumper over a plain white tee shirt, and he wasted no more time taking advantage of the fact, slipping both hands beneath the hem, running a slow, lingering trail along her bare legs, gathering the material of the jumper up along the way. She raised her arms and shifted positions to allow him to pull it up and over her head more easily, and he tossed it aside, his eyes alight with desire as he gazed at her. 

With one swift, fluid motion, she removed her tee shirt herself, leaving her all but naked to his sight, then she reached for the fly of his jeans; he groaned again as he hastily stood up long enough to shed himself of them, then he returned to her, gathering her into his arms once more. 

Suddenly she found herself on her back, pressed into the mattress by the weight of his body as he settled himself in the cradle of her thighs, and she thought she would go mad from longing. She wrapped her legs around his hips as he cupped her breasts, stroking and teasing while he left a trail of fire along her neck and shoulders with his lips and teeth and tongue. 

Isabel explored his slender body—this unfamiliar territory—relishing the feel of his skin beneath her palms, slipping her hands beneath the waistband of his boxer shorts to chart by touch what she could not yet see. Passion filled her, overwhelmed her—she hadn't known such intoxicating desire as this in years— 

"Shit—"

"Oh, hell—"

Peter rolled off her at the exact moment she reached up to push him away, and they lay sprawled in their respective positions for a moment, silent and panting. Isabel stared at the ceiling, idly wondering when he'd repaired the water stain—and then she realized that was a memory from years and years ago. When she'd lain in this very room in a much smaller bed. 

When the man beside her had been Mike.

"Please tell me that felt as good to you as it did to me," he said at last.

"Better."

"Oh, good. I don't have to shoot myself now."

"Okay, what did _you_ realize?" Isabel asked faintly, throwing her arm across her eyes as she fought to suppress her body's wayward longings. 

Peter's voice was muffled when he answered, and she glanced over to see that he had covered his face with both hands, which were visibly trembling.

"That I was about to make love with my best friend's wife...and that would make me no better than he is," he replied. "You?"

Isabel flipped onto her side, propping herself up on her arm as she gazed at him, her expression grave. "That I completely understand _why_ Mike had an affair," she said matter-of-factly. 

And it was so simple. He'd tried to explain, but until she'd felt it for herself, there was no way she could have understood exactly what he meant. But now...

"I don't remember the last time I felt passion that strong, that explosive," she continued. "Don't get me wrong—I _enjoyed_ making love, but the passion—the spark—whatever you want to call it has been gone for a while. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I know." Peter nodded. "You got in a rut."

"Exactly!" she exclaimed. "But this—what just happened—" She bounced upright, waving her hands and speaking with more animation than she'd felt in months. "That was passion! I haven't lost it! It's still there—!"

"You just have to find it with _Mike_ again," he concluded for her. 

She hushed in mid-sentence, looking down at him, her mouth still open. Then she shut it with a snap and slowly nodded. "I suppose so," she answered slowly. "I don't know if that's even possible anymore, though. So much has happened..." 

But deep down, she knew Peter was right; she had to at least make an attempt to relight the fire with Mike. Now that she knew exactly what the problem was—now that she had a new understanding and perspective on _his_ situation—she felt obligated to try once more. 

"I do," she said. "That's the key, isn't it? That's what was missing. But, Peter—" She turned to him, awash with remorse at what she had done, what she must have put him through. She also realized she was sitting there in nothing but her underwear, which probably wasn't helping matters anyway; quickly she reached down and grabbed her shirt, yanking it over her head and trying to tug it down to a modest length.

"I'm sorry," she told him, meaning it more than he could possibly realize; the last thing she ever wanted to do was deliberately hurt him. "This was stupid and thoughtless and selfish—"

"And human," he finished for her, taking her hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You were hurt, you were vulnerable—"

She gazed steadily into his eyes as she added, "I never meant to hurt you or put you in such an awful position."

"It wasn't so awful," he replied, a teasing note creeping into his voice. "A little hard on my back, maybe, but not awful."

"Don't joke," she replied sternly. "I'm trying to humble myself here."

"And since that's not something I get to see very often—"

She gave up and punched his shoulder. 

"Peter, this isn't going to affect our friendship, is it?" she asked with growing concern. "I couldn't stand losing you, especially over something like this—"

"I'm still your friend," he answered firmly, cupping her cheek in one hand and locking his gaze with hers so she could see his sincerity for herself. "I still love you—and no, I'm not carrying some torch for you either, so don't even think it, you vain little thing," he teased. "I've just been a bit...lonely recently."

"You were as vulnerable as I was," she whispered, understanding completely.

He nodded. "And our defenses crumbled at the same time."

"I didn't realize—" she said, a pang of guilt stabbing at her conscience. She'd been so wrapped up in her own misery that she hadn't even seen that her dearest friend was troubled too. "We'll have to do something about that."

"Go solve your own problems first, sweetheart," he instructed. "Then you can come stick your nose in mine. As usual."

She stuck her tongue out at him, and he grinned, flashing those dimples at her. He leaned forward a little, just enough so he could kiss her once more—a light but lingering kiss that said volumes about his affection for her. He was, she thought and not for the first time, perhaps the truest and best friend she—and Mike and Micky and Davy—could possibly have.

"Wish me luck," she sighed as she scrambled off the bed and to her feet. "We didn't part on the best of terms. I don't even know if this is going to work. It may be too late—for both of us."

"If it is—" He cut off the words abruptly, but when she glanced at him, when she saw the look in his eyes, she knew the rest. 

_If it is, I'll be here_. 

She nodded once to acknowledge the unspoken promise that hung in the air between them, and then she scooped up the rest of her clothes and dressed swiftly. 

She left for home once more, mostly pleased that she'd found a potential way to help her marriage. One tiny part of her, however, was still in Peter's bed, recalling the silken feel of his flesh beneath her fingertips, the taste of his lips on hers. 

~*~*~ 

She barely registered that the house was still intact and whatever had been broken against the door had been cleaned up as she strode down the hall to the guest bedroom, her heart pounding in her throat as she envisioned the battle royale she knew was about to erupt. If he was even still there...

And she had cut it awfully close. She burst into the guest bedroom to find his suitcase open on the bed and his clothes strung haphazardly around the room. He was packing.

"You're not going anywhere," she announced without preamble, bracing both hands on the side of the doorframe to give herself the support she would need to get through this. She had no idea how he would react when she told him what happened—or what had nearly happened—with Peter, but if he would only listen...

"The hell I'm not," he snapped, glancing up from the drawer he was emptying long enough to glare at her. "What have I got to stay _here_ for?"

"I know what's wrong," she replied, fighting to keep herself calm. "I finally figured out what's wrong with our marriage, I know how to fix it, and I understand—" she broke off, suddenly afraid of admitting the truth, but knowing she had no choice. Her entire argument hinged on it.

He stopped flinging wrinkled shirts into the suitcase long enough to peer at her through narrowed eyes. "You understand _what_?" he demanded.

She straightened her shoulders, looked him square in the eye and replied as steadily as she could, "I understand why you had an affair."

He gaped at her wordlessly for an instant, then his face clouded over with suspicion. "And just how is that possible when all I've been hearin for the past few weeks is that you could _never_ understand why I did it?"

She sucked in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, "Because I very nearly slept with Peter."

He didn't say a word; he simply started gathering up his clothes and shoving them in the suitcase with more speed and barely contained anger than before.

"Mike—please listen—" She stretched out her hand to him, silently imploring him to give her a chance to explain. "I won't deny that my feelings for Peter have grown a little stronger lately, but Peter and I both put an end to it before we went too far, and the experience taught me a lot."

She crossed the room quickly, moving to stand in front of him, grabbing the bundle of clothes from his hands and tossing them aside as she gazed up at him, forcing him to pay attention to her.

"You and I may still love each other, but we're not _in_ love anymore," she continued. His expression was closed, his eyes shuttered, and she wasn't certain if he were actually hearing what she was saying, but she plunged ahead anyway, hoping she was getting through. "The passion we shared in the early days has dwindled down to practically nothing. We don't have the same spark—the chemistry we used to have."

"So what you do think we can do about it?" he asked coldly. 

Inwardly, she quailed at his frigid tone, but she rallied her courage and offered her suggestion.

"We need to rekindle the flame," she said. "We need to recapture whatever it was that drew us together in the first place. We need to...court each other again. Maybe start dating again, build up the anticipation. As if our relationship is brand-new."

He regarded her for what felt like an eternity, his face an empty mask. "Are you sure that's what you want?" he asked at last. "Or would you rather start over with someone else?" 

She heard the unspoken, "someone like Peter," and she closed her eyes, massaging the bridge of her nose as she tried to pull her thoughts together well enough to explain how she truly felt—but it would help if she knew herself! 

"I don't know," she replied, and he turned away from her abruptly with a muttered curse. Her heart ached as she gazed at his tense back, and she felt a sudden impulse to run to him, throw her arms around him and assure him everything was going to be fine. But she didn't know that, and anything less than total honesty would be unfair both to him and to herself. 

"But I'm committed to trying to salvage our marriage," she added quietly. "I'm not going to abandon what we had without exploring every possibility." 

"I suppose I should be grateful for that," he retorted, either unable or unwilling to hide the bitterness in his voice. 

"Do you want to try my idea or not?" she asked wearily, not wanting to delve into another round of pointless acrimony. 

"Sure." He shrugged, still not turning to face her. "It certainly couldn't _hurt_ matters at this point. This weekend all right with you?" 

"This weekend is fine," she said. "Saturday night?" 

"Fine," he replied tersely. "Now do you mind? I've got things to do here." 

"Mike..." She took a hesitant step forward, stretching out her hand, but his stiff posture and continued refusal to look at her made her stop. 

"Just go, Isa," he said, and this time, it was he who sounded mortally tired. "Leave me alone." 

Without another word, she did as he asked, retreating to her own bedroom to sort through the tumultuous events of the day. Oddly enough, the thing she found most puzzling was not how she'd almost had sex with another man, but that she felt perhaps she shouldn't have been so brutally honest with Mike. Obviously her tactless words had stung. 

But he was the one who'd betrayed her. 

So why did she feel guilty now...?


	3. Chapter 3

The computer’s low mechanical hum was the only noise in the room as Isabel stared at the monitor; the rough draft of her manuscript was pulled up, but she hadn’t touched it. She simply sat in her over-sized oxblood chair, her knees drawn up under her chin as she leaned her cheek in her hand and pretended to proof-read chapter five. 

It could have been written in Swahili for all she knew; her thoughts were too jumbled for her to concentrate well enough to write. Thanks to her personal life, she didn’t have writer’s block; she had writer’s _void_ , making her feel incapable of putting two words together in a way that made any sense at all. 

She’d retreated to the small home office that adjoined her bedroom with the good intentionds of getting some work done, but instead she’s found herself mulling over recent events. Specifically, her near-miss with Peter. 

The mere thought made her body tighten in ways she hadn’t felt in ages. She’d assumed that the longer and longer intervals between love-making and her increasingly tepid sex drive was normal—a natural by-product of aging along with wrinkles and grey hair. 

It would seem she had been wrong. 

The problem was that she doubted she and Mike could ever again feel that excitement, that raw passion, that consuming hunger for each other. They’d shared it once, and the fire had burned for a great many years. But such intensity was impossible to sustain indefinitely, and it had died for lack of fuel. At this point, she wasn’t certain there were even any faintly glowing coals to help rebuild the flame or if nothing remained but cold, dead ashes. 

One of the most intriguing factors where Peter was concerned was the Mystery of the Unknown. She knew nothing about him sexually except what little their brief encounter had taught her. As a lover, he was new and different—two things irresistable to the curious human nature. She didn’t know how he approached sex—hot and quick or slow and easy—or what his favorite position was, or where his pleasure points were. Nothing. 

Unlike Mike. 

She knew the map of _his_ body as well as she knew her own. She knew his most vulnerable tickle spots and where a skillful caress of hand or tongue could instantly arouse him. She could close her eyes while they made love and know exactly what effect her actions were having on him just by listening. She knew what he liked and what he didn’t like, and she was confident that if asked, he could say the same of her. 

They knew each other, yes—too well. How could they hope to rekindle fresh, hot passion under those circumstances? There were no surprises. Not anymore— 

A sharp rap on the door jolted her out of her reverie, and she jumped, startled. 

“Come in!” she snapped, not bothering to hide her irritation at being interrupted. 

The door swung open, and Mike strode in; he took one look at her face, and his lips thinned into a line of displeasure. Isabel knew what _that_ meant well enough. He was bracing himself for battle. 

“I want to talk to you about this weekend,” he announced without preamble. 

She gestured to the chair on the other side of her desk, trying to conjure a pleasant smile. He crossed the room and sat down, but he didn’t relax, his entire body radiating tension. 

“What about it?” she asked in as mild a tone as she could muster. She had, after all, promised herself and him a second chance, and being openly antagonistic wasn’t going to help matters. 

“Well, I—” 

But he was cut off by the abrupt jangle of the phone—her private line—and Isabel snatched up the receiver, grateful for the diversion. She dreaded this whole “date” idea even though she’d come up with it in the first place; she had horrid visions of them trapped on opposite sides of a table, staring at each other all night with nothing to say. 

“Hello?” she answered, expecting to hear Rob’s voice. It was about time for him to call and ask for an update on his parents’ progress. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” 

“Peter!” she exclaimed, unable to keep the delight out of her voice even if she’d tried, which she didn’t. 

Across the desk, Mike’s countenance turned as cold and stony as if it had been chiseled in marble. 

“I wanted to call and see how you were doing.” 

“Oh, I’m fine...” Her attention drifted from Peter as she watched Mike withdraw further and further in front of her very eyes. 

“After yesterday, I thought—I don’t know—I thought maybe I should apologize—” 

“Nonsense. We’re both adults...” 

Mike rose to his feet and walked away without a backwards glance. 

“I know, but—” 

“Peter, could you hold on a second?” Isabel clapped her hand over the mouthpiece and hissed, “Where are you going? I thought you wanted to talk.” 

He turned back, and she noted that even though his face was a study in stoic indifference, his hands were clenched into fists by his sides. 

“What for?” he replied, keeping his voice low, but his words slammed into her with a solid impact. “I’m sick of fightin a losin battle.” 

“Losing battle—? _What_ are you talking about?” she demanded, her brows snapping together in a fierce scowl. 

Mike regarded her silently, and when he spoke again, his tone was filled with resignation. “Your eyes light up for Peter. You smile and sound happy to talk to him. _I_ get guarded looks and the same polite distance you’d give a stranger. You almost went to bed with Peter, but if I so much as lay a hand on you, you act like you’re goin to scream rape.” 

“Oh, come on!” she scoffed weakly. “You’re over-exaggerating.” 

“I’m not, and you know it!” he retorted sharply, jabbing an accusatory finger at her. “Enough’s enough. I got the message. As far as you’re concerned, our marriage is dead. Let’s just call off this farce you call a ‘second chance’ and pull the plug.” 

He stopped suddenly and glanced away from her, staring resolutely at the wall, his jaw working as if he wanted to speak but was considering the wisdome of it. 

“If you wanted revenge,” he said at last, facing her once more and skewering her with his unrelenting gaze. “If you wanted to make me suffer, you got it, babe. It’s your turn to walk out. Now we’re even.” 

And with that, he was gone, closing the door behind himself with a quiet click that resounded like a gunshot in the silent room. 

_If you wanted revenge_... 

Oh, God...He was right... 

The receiver nearly slipped from her nerveless fingers as she stared at the door, her mind reeling from the implications of what he’d said. 

_Now we’re even_... 

As much as she hated to think—to admit—she was that petty and spiteful...No, her motives hadn’t been totally pure. She’d used Peter. Yes, she was attracted to him, and she desired him, but she’d also used him as an effective weapon to hurt Mike, to repay him for betraying her. 

She was no better than Mike was. 

Worse, perhaps. He’d chosen a stranger. _She_ had nearly slept with one of his best friends. 

“Isabel?” Peter’s voice in her ear jolted her back to reality, reminding her she’d left him hanging on the other end of the line. “Is everything okay? Should I call back later?” 

“No...” she croaked, barely able to force the words past the thick lump forming in her throat. “Peter, you need to come over here.” 

“ _Now_?” 

“Yes, now,” she replied, her tone brooking no argument. “It’s important. Just get over here as soon as you can.” 

“Okay. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” 

She hung up without saying good-bye, then covered her face with trembling hands, filled with loathing and contempt for what she’d inadvertantly done to Peter...to Mike...to herself. 

~*~*~ 

“I owe you both an apology,” Isabel stated bluntly. 

Peter, who was perched on the edge of his chair, leaned forward, watching her with a puzzled frown. Mike merely settled back in his seat and stroked his beard as he regarded her somberly. For her part, Isabel couldn’t possibly sit still; she remained behind the couch, pacing the length of it as she divided her attention between the two men who, whether subconsciously or intentionally, had positioned themselves at some distance opposite one another. 

“I used you, Peter,” she continued, clasping her hands together so tightly the knuckles turned white. “Underneath everything I’ve come to feel for you lies the ugly truth that I used you to hurt Mike.” 

Peter’s face drained of color as he stared at her, obviously dumbfounded. 

“At this moment, I’m not sure how I feel about either one of you. I think I could fall in love with you,” she told Peter in a gentler tone. “But—” 

“But your first priority is your marriage,” he finished for her, fixing his gaze on the floor. 

“Yes,” she replied firmly. “It is. It has to be.” 

She moved swiftly to stand in front of him and cupped his face in her hands, making him look up at her. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling tears swim in her eyes as she caressed his cheek, sifted her fingers through his hair. “You can’t know how much.” 

Wordlessly, he slipped his arms around her waist and rested his head against her stomach; there they stayed as long moments passed until at last she felt him sigh and pull away. 

“I told you before we’d still be friends, and I meant it,” he told her quietly. “I’ve been where you are. I understand the confusion you must be going through.” 

One or two wayward tears escaped then, but before she could impatiently scrub them away herself, he reached up and brushed them away with his thumb. 

“We’ve known each other too long for me to imagine my life without you in it,” he added. “I’ll always be here in whatever way you need me.” 

Impulsively, she leaned down and hugged him tight, pausing long enough to whisper “thank you” in his ear before releasing him and turning to face Mike, who had watched the scene playing out before him with a perfect mask of impassivity. Even his eyes were shielded, and she hoped she wasn’t making things worse. 

“And you,” she said, trying to compose herself. “I apologize to you too.” 

“For what?” he asked curtly. 

“For being a hypocrite,” she answered candidly. “I blamed you for our problems without accepting my part in them. I’m just as guilty of taking our relationship for granted as you are. We both allowed things to degenerate to this point. We both _settled_ —and that was our undoing.” 

She took in a deep, steadying breath as she left Peter and went to Mike, holding out both hands and hoping he wouldn’t reject her overture of peace. 

After a brief hesitation, he reached out and clasped her hands in a cool, firm grip, and she nearly collapsed with relief. With a watery smile, she squeezed his fingers, feeling an answering squeeze in response. 

“And to top it all off, I went out and almost did what I refused to forgive you for,” she added, and he nodded although whether in agreement or simply acknowledgment she wasn’t certain. “I was wrong to punish you for crimes I’m guilty of myself, and I’m sorry. I can honestly say now that I understand why you—had an affair,” she continued, forcing the words past her pride. “And that new perspective changes everything. I want that second chance.” 

His eyes searched her face as if trying to ascertain the truth of her words; what he found must have satisfied him for eventually one corner of his mouth quirked up a little. 

"What're you doin tomorrow night?" he asked softly, and she bit her lip to fight back the rush of tears that threatened to overwhelm her. 

"Having dinner with you," she replied, her voice tremulous. 

Now there was only one more task left undone, and that was something _she_ could have no part in. Freeing her hands, she retreated to the door, ignoring the quizzical looks she was receiving from both of them. Pausing in the doorway, she turned back and fixed them with a stern look. 

"I've extended my olive branches, and I'm grateful you both accepted. But I think it's time for you to talk to each other. Alone." 

Mike and Peter exchanged wide-eyed, alarmed glances, then turned to her with identical "you must be joking" expressions. 

"If you don't hold a grudge against me, then you shouldn't hold one against each other," she said firmly. "We're all guilty of causing pain in varying degrees. _None_ of us can afford to throw stones. And as Peter pointed out, thirty years is too long a time to be together to just toss it aside whether we're talking about a marriage—or a friendship. So talk." 

And with that, she left them to work out their differences. Or not. But she fervently hoped they would; she hated to think she'd caused a rift between them, and if they didn't settle the matter tonight, she fully intended to badger them both endlessly until they _did_. 

Nearly two hours crawled by before Isabel saw any movement outside. She'd stationed herself by an upstairs window that overlooked the front of the house; she'd been tempted to eavesdrop outside the door, but she contented herself with a stake-put instead, not wanting to infringe on their privacy. 

Peter appeared on the walk leading to the front door—not alone. Mike trailed a pace or two behind him, his hands shoved in his pockets. She couldn't make out their expressions, but before he reached his car, Peter stopped and turned to face Mike. 

Mike studied the walk for a moment, then he glanced up—and extended one hand. 

Isabel could see Peter's answering smile even from a distance as he clasped Mike's hand in both his own. She slumped in her chair, releasing a sigh of sheer relief at the sight. She didn't know if things would be back to normal between them— _any_ of them—any time soon, but at least that night had proven to be a good start. 

~*~*~ 

They decided to keep it simple for the first time out: dinner. Preferably at a restaurant that didn't have a great many memories and associations from the past. They wanted to start over as completely as they could, and choosing an entirely new setting would be a good start. 

For her part, Isabel didn't think she had been _this_ nervous when she had gone out with him the first time!

She came to a screeching halt in the middle of her bedroom on her way from the closet to the bathroom for the hundredth time, wracking her brain as she tried to remember their very first date, and to her chagrin, she couldn't do it. She drew a total blank. Ah well, she shrugged, she would have to ask _him_ about it later. Right now, she had more pressing matters to worry about, namely finding an outfit that would make her look, to use Micky's phrase, "hot enough to fry eggs."

A daunting task indeed, she thought with a disdainful sniff as she tossed another reject onto the growing pile on the bed. This was too frumpy, that was too conservative, and the other was too _old_. She scoured the racks once more, scowling as she searching for something suitable.

Why hadn't she gone shopping?!

In the end, she decided on a black silk shirt with a V neckline that plunged, but not too deeply—just enough to hint at curves but not flaunt them—and an almost-but-not-quite mini length black skirt. Black was the color that flattered her the most, especially now that it provided such a striking contrast to her silver hair, and she had to admit even to her own critical eye that her legs were still one of her best features. Her exercise routine kept them firm, and the three inch heels she slipped into brought out the shape nicely.

She wore her hair down and loose—the way he prefered it—letting it ripple like a quicksilver wave down her back, and with one last look in the mirror, she conceded that she was passable.

Finally, feeling as ready as she was ever going to be, Isabel hurried downstairs, the butterflies in her stomach multiplying exponentially by the second. He was _always_ ready to go before she was, and she knew she'd find him waiting in the living room, probably glancing at his watch.

Sure enough, when she peered around the door, he was sliding his shirtsleeve up; he rolled his eyes when he checked the time and dropped his hand by his side again, tapping his foot impatiently. 

"Ahem," she said loudly, announcing her presence as she stepped into the room.

He glanced up at her, and his eyes widened slightly as he gave her a thorough once-over. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she stared at the floor a moment, feeling unaccountably bashful—with _him_! Thirty years, and suddenly she was a blushing teenager again...

"I hope you're my date," he remarked lightly. "Otherwise, I'll be mighty disappointed."

"Sorry." She looked up at him and smiled. "I'm your date's room-mate. Your real date is still upstairs shaving her back."

He chuckled at that. "Would you consider sneakin off with me before she comes down?"

Her smile widened as she nodded, and he gestured for her to precede him out of the room.

"You look—" he paused in the entrance hall, taking in her appearance once more. "—beautiful."

"Pshaw." She felt herself blushing again as she waved one hand dismissively, but the compliment did her ego good. Glancing sidelong at him, she admired the view from her standpoint. He'd chosen to go with black as well—probably for the same reason, she smirked—a black suit with a crisp white shirt. Very nice, she thought. Very nice indeed. 

"You've lost weight." She blurted out the thought before she could censor it, and immediately she clapped one hand over her mouth, hoping he wouldn't take offense. She meant it as a back-handed compliment, but there was no guarantee he would take it as such. 

"Stress," he answered tersely and left it at that. 

They walked outside without speaking another word; Isabel felt certain her heartbeat echoed down the entire street, and if it kept up its breakneck pace, she'd end the evening in the emergency room hooked up to a nitro IV. 

The awkward silence built and built until she could feel its almost palable presence between them, and she groped for something to say. 

"Do you remember our first date?"

Mike stopped dead in his tracks, giving her a puzzled look. "Where did _that_ come from?" he demanded. 

"I was just thinking about it while I was getting dressed," she shrugged. "I wanted to know if you remembered anything about it." 

He opened his mouth as if he were going to say something, then abruptly shut it again and frowned.

"You're not goin to call this off if I say no, are you?"

She smiled and shook her head. "No—I can't remember it either. I guess maybe because we never really dated so much as we just hung out together."

"Probably," he mused, a faraway look suddenly appearing in his eyes, and she nudged him lightly with her elbow.

"Where are you off to?" she asked softly.

He raised one eyebrow at her as a tiny smile quirked the corners of his mouth. "The first day we met. I _do_ remember that. Peter came bustin in, actin as bad as Davy over a new girl, and he started ramblin about this 'groovy chick' who was movin in next door." He laughed a little at the memory. "Next thing I know, he's volunteered _us_ to help."

Isabel chuckled, the butterflies dispersing somewhat as she let her mind wander back to that fateful day. "You didn't come out to the moving van with Micky and Davy—"

"Yeah, I was doin something else. I don't remember what, though..."

"And I bumped into you on the way out of the house—" She moved to stand in front of him, close enough so that they almost touched. 

"Uh-huh." He gazed down at her, a fond smile softening his features. "I took one look in those huge Bambi eyes of yours, and I was gone."

A delighted smile bloomed, lighting up her entire face. "Really?" she asked, scarcely able to believe what she was hearing. He'd never told her any of this before—and she certainly hadn't expected to hear it _now_.

"Yep," he nodded, his dark eyes never leaving hers. "I thought you were one of the prettiest girls I'd ever seen."

She ducked her head, peeping up at him bashfully as she replied, "I thought you were pretty cute yourself." She paused, then, emboldened by his admissions, she continued. "And then when you introduced yourself, and I saw your shy smile—"

"Isa—" Now he was the one who was growing embarrassed, and that shy-little-boy smile tugged at his lips despite his best efforts to contain it.

"That's the one!" she exclaimed, laughing with delight. "You had me right then. I was yours."

"And now?"

Not too long ago, she might have replied that she didn't know, or that she couldn't possibly answer the question. But something had begun to change. Slowly. Subtly. She didn't even know what "it" was. She only felt it, knew the effect it was having on her that night. And apparently on him as well. 

She dropped her shields long enough for him to see the sincerity shining in her eyes as she whispered, "I think that smile is just as deadly now as it was then."

The shyness disappeared from his smile, replaced by pleasure brought on by her response. He extended one hand to her—a clear invitation—and she slipped her fingers into his palm, only slightly surprised when, out of long-standing habit, he laced their fingers together and gave hers a slight squeeze.

"Let's go before my real date gets through with her back," he said with one of his dead-pan looks.

And this time, there was no nervousness at all as she let him lead her to the car; her nerves were calm and tranquil, and she found herself looking forward to the quiet evening to come.


	4. Chapter 4

To her profound relief, the impromptu nostalgia they had indulged in had effectively broken the ice, and throughout their dinner together, the conversation was light and enjoyable. They discussed matters that they hadn't bothered talking about in ages—Isabel fretted about her new manuscript, and Mike outlined the plans he and Micky had made for an album they wanted to do together. Trivial subjects, but things that had fallen by the wayside, she realized abruptly as she watched his face light up with excitement as he nattered on about the new material and Micky's artwork on the cover.

They'd stopped sharing things like this. Why? she wondered. When did we start thinking that we weren't interested in each other's lives anymore?

"Oh, before I forget," Mike said suddenly, interrupting himself in the process. "The Next Evolution is playin Saturday night, and Rob wants us to come see them."

Isabel raised one eyebrow almost to her hairline. "Since _when_?"

"Since I made the mistake of tellin him what we're tryin to do," Mike admitted. "He's all for the idea, and—"

"And he's trying to help further the cause," she finished for him with a wry chuckle. "Don't let me forget this the next time he starts complaining that _I'm_ being nosy."

"So..." he asked, sounding deliberately casual. "You want to try this again?"

"Definitely," she replied softly, and the look she got in response was enough to make her heart start beating faster all over again—but for an entirely different reason.

Hours later, they returned home, and Isabel could scarcely believe the changes that had already occurred. She hadn't realized exactly how _much_ they'd taken for granted until they started talking tonight. He'd revealed plans and dreams for the future that she never would have imagined from him—like when he admitted he wanted to write a book of his own. _Had_ in fact started a couple of chapters.

She had gaped at him, stunned, for a few seconds, then—instead of launching into a litany of questions—she simply asked, "May I read it sometime?"

The startled look he gave her was rapidly replaced by pleasure that she'd asked, and he nodded. "When I get more done. I've been a bit...distracted lately."

"I know the feeling," she answered wryly, and they shared an ironic chuckle. 

She gave a quiet sigh as she started up the steps headed to her bedroom; it was late, and they both had business to take care of the next day, but still she wished the night could go on; she was surprised but delighted that they were rediscovering one another, and she hated for the magic evening to end, fearful that the morning would bring another day like all the others before it: tension, arguments, distance. 

Then she realized he was no longer behind her, and she stopped, glancing over her shoulder to see him hovering at the foot of the stairs, appearing uncertain whether he ought to go any further or not.

"You can walk me to the door," she teased, a saucy smile curving her lips, and she heard his bemused snort—but he followed her up.

What _now_? she wondered as she reached for the doorknob, her stomach tying itself in knots. 

"So are you the kind of girl who kisses on the first date?" he asked, his expression serious, but there was an impish gleam in his eyes that let her know he was up to something.

And she was _dying_ to know what it was.

"No, not usually," she demurred, glancing up at him coyly. "But in your case, I'll make an exception."

For a moment, she was convinced that he planned to sweep her into his arms and into a torrid kiss filled with burning desire, but what he actually did was far more devastating.

He caught her hands, lacing their fingers together and, keeping a good six inches between them, he leaned forward just enough to reach her. Then he brushed her lips with his in a maddeningly light kiss that lingered _just_ long enough to give her a taste—of affection, of longing, of him...

In that instant, Time shimmered and collapsed, and she flashed back to a chilly brick wall numbing her backside, their hands linked palm-to-palm, the first-ever touch of his warm mouth, the scent of lilies in the darkness...

And then he drew back, releasing her hands and shoving his own in his pockets, the merest hint of satisfaction playing in his features.

She opened her eyes, her brows snapping together as she glared pure annoyance at him.

"You _tease_!" she accused, only half-joking.

She had been unprepared for the effects that one little kiss would have; it sang to her of promise and hope, and she was shocked to realize she wanted more.

Lifting one shoulder in a negligent shrug, he gave her that enigmatic smile she knew so well—the one that said he knew exactly what he was doing. The hot-n-heavy approach might have made her skittish with worry that he was going to push for more than she was prepared to give, but this had been nonthreatening—and mind-blowing as well.

"You wanted anticipation," he reminded her, sounding so convincingly nonchalant that her inner demons prompted her to do something—anything—to shatter his composure in the same way he had just shattered hers.

"You're right," she replied in a deceptively sweet voice that immediately brought a wary look to his face. "I did. And now it's _your_ turn."

She opened the door and inched backwards until she stood just inside her bedroom, still facing him. Putting on what she hoped was her best provacative pout, she captured his gaze and held it, which meant she witnessed the very moment those sleepy dark eyes started growing wider and wider as she slowly let her fingers glide up the front of her blouse until they reached the top button.

Biting back laughter at his tortured look, she unfastened the first four buttons, lingering over each one as she did and being careful to keep the blouse closed until she was ready.

"Isa—that's not fair—" His voice was ragged. And did she hear a pleading note lurking in there somewhere?

She grinned outright, unable to hold back her mirth any longer, then she grabbed the lapels of her shirt and flashed him, giving him only the briefest glimpse of her lace-and-spun-air lingerie.

"Anticipation, darling!" she trilled—and then slammed the door shut in his face.

~*~*~ 

"So."

Isabel sauntered into the makeshift office/studio Mike had set up for the duration of their stay at the beach house, her fingers curled around two steaming cups of coffee, one of which she placed on the desk near his elbow. 

It was a small room, intended as a second guest room, and he had filled it with the kind of familiar paraphernalia she had seen all throughout their married life. Instruments were propped in the corners, stereo and recording equipment was set up all along one wall, and his desk and shelves were covered with his computer and its accessories, books, letters, sheet music, and countless sticky notes. But everything was neat and orderly, she noted with amusement, and she would be willing to bet he knew where to lay his hands on anything he needed. Her own work area was more on the cluttery side, which he had always felt compelled to straighten for her—and which had led to her banning him from coming within five feet of her desk because he invariably threw away something she ended up needing.

"How did you sleep last night?" she asked, not even bothering to conceal the smugness in her voice and smile. 

She headed for the wingback chair in front of the desk and curled up in it, tucking her robe around her bare feet as she sipped her coffee. Mike glanced up at her over the top of his monitor and gave her quelling glare before turning his attention to whatever he was working on again.

"I didn't sleep worth shit, and you know it," he growled. "It took me forever to _get_ to sleep, and when I finally did, I kept having erotic dreams about you just like I used to when I was on the road."

She froze with the cup poised half-way to her lips and stared at him, dumbfounded. She had expected him to exhibit the same cool reserve he'd gathered around himself ever since he'd moved in at least until he was certain their relationship was on firmer ground; Mike was not and never had been an emotional risk-taker—neither was _she_ , for that matter—and for him to casually drop an admission such as this spoke volumes. 

Perhaps he was making an effort to be more open. 

Perhaps he was feeling more secure after their first night out than she realized. 

Perhaps he was trying to unsettle her as much as she'd unsettled _him_ the night before. 

_I'll take door number three, Monty_ , she thought with a silent chuckle. 

"You had erotic dreams about me?" she asked, hinting for clarification. 

"Yeah—all the time." He raised one eyebrow, obviously surprised by her reaction. "I never told you about that?"

"No, you never told me about that," she exclaimed testily.

"Huh."

He focused on the computer screen and began typing again, the keys clicking rhythmically beneath his flying fingers, and he waited just long enough for her to get impatient and open her mouth to prompt him before continuing.

"Well, there's not much to tell," he said, concentrating on his work diligently. _Too_ diligently, she thought, narrowing her eyes. He was deliberately provoking her. "I was fine until about the second or third week of the tour, business trip, whatever. Then one night, I'd get off the phone with you, and I'd suddenly be so homesick I could hardly stand it. From that night on, I'd have these dreams until I finally got home."

"Care to tell me anything about them?" she asked, intentionally casual.

"I'd rather show you."

He didn't so much as glance up or pause in his typing as he spoke, but she went perfectly still as a searing, scorching liquid ball of pure heat formed in her stomach and plunged straight down, evoked by his words and the images they created.

It's back! she thought, shocked and delighted all at once. It's really back!

This was budding passion!

This was the first trace of desire!

This was something she needed to stop thinking about unless she wanted to end up jumping him then and there, which _he_ probably wouldn't mind, but if their housekeeper Mrs. Lovett walked in...

"Good news," she said in as calm a voice as she could muster.

"Hhm?" He appeared to be totally engrossed, and she smiled a little, knowing what she was about to say was going to rattle him.

"I just felt a rush of lust for you so strong, I wanted to sweep everything off the desk and have my way with you right there."

The typing stopped.

"I think that's a good sign, don't you?" she asked breezily as she stood up and waltzed to the door.

"Yep..." he replied faintly. "Good sign..."

"See you later!" she sang, and then made good her escape before he could retaliate in kind.

~*~*~ 

"Oh, Mick—you should've seen his face," she giggled into the phone receiver. "It was _priceless_!" 

On the other end of the line, Micky dissolved into a fit of laughter. "I can't believe you said that!" he exclaimed when he'd caught his breath enough to speak coherently again.

"Well, he said he wanted to know if we were making any progress," she replied self-righteously, which set Micky off again.

"You little tease!"

"Hey, _he_ started it," she informed him.

She was so pleased with the new ease and playfulness that had sprung up between them that she had to tell someone the good news, and her adopted baby brother was the first choice. 

"Uh-huh, and Lady Nesmith is going to be sure she finishes it," he retorted. "I almost feel sorry for him..."

"Don't weep too much," she replied with more than a little asperity. "This is _Mike_ we're talking about here. There's no way he'll let me get away with this indefinitely—he's going to nail me to the wall the moment I least expect it."

"So I guess this means you two are finally healing?" His voice deepened slightly as he changed to a more serious subject, and she sobered instantly as well. 

She paused for a moment to consider the question as objectively as possible before answering. 

"Yes..." she replied slowly. "I suppose it does. It's a good _start_ anyway, and it gives me hope that there's some left to salvage." 

"You were worried?" 

She could hear the surprise in Micky's voice, and a rueful smile curved her lips. 

"Oh, yes. I was worried," she answered softly. "I was beginning to think I would never be able to forgive him, that there was nothing left between us to build on—" 

"That you were falling in love with Peter." 

"Yes, that too," she admitted. 

"And are you?" Micky asked, knowing he could get away with asking the blunt question. 

Isabel released a long, slow breath. "No, I don't think so, but I don't know if I'm falling in love with Mike again either." 

"Well, I'd say the lust thing is a pretty good indication you feel _something_ for him," Micky teased, and she laughed. 

"Oh, yes, I definitely feel _something_ ," she retorted, matching his playful tone. "I don't know, Micky...I suppose it took getting thrown into the same situation before I could understand what he was going through, but now that I do—" She shrugged even though he couldn't see it. "It's easier for me to understand his motives because in my own way I shared them. I'm not seething with resentment anymore, and that makes a big difference. I think—I'm hopeful that we can make this work." 

Micky was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, she could hear the melancholy undertone in his voice despite his attempt to sound light and cheerful. "Y'know, Mags always used to say that she thought you guys could face Hell together and come out the other side unbroken."

She clutched the receiver tighter, wishing she could be there to comfort him at that moment; he rarely talked about Mags, and the fact that he mentioned her now touched Isabel deeply.

"Tempered, perhaps," she replied quietly. "But not broken."

"Or scarred?"

"No, not scarred," she smiled slightly. "Amazing as it sounds, I think if we get through this still together, we're going to be better off than we were before. If we've learned anything from this debacle it's that we can't take each other or our relationship for granted. Love is too precious to waste that way."

"It's a simple lesson," Micky said softly. "But so many people have to learn it the hard way—and sometimes they never learn it at all."

~*~*~ 

The club their son's group was playing at was a trendy place popular among the younger generation of actors and musicians; it could be turning point in The Next Evolution's fate if they were noticed and liked by some of the influential patrons of the LA hotspot, and Isabel was nervous on Rob's behalf. 

She was also nervous about having to face the press she knew were going to be there; Rob had warned her a few days earlier when she called to tell him they were attending the opening night gig that entertainment reporters flocked like vultures around the place trying to get interviews, soundbites or photos of the famous club-goers. 

Mike had always been on the reclusive side, and fortunately, although he and the others were well-known, they were not on the level of some of the mega-stars in the music and film industry, which afforded them an extra measure of privacy. People were more interested in reading about the marital antics of higher profile stars who married and divorced in the same week, and up until recently, the Nesmiths had been a happily married—i.e. boring—couple.

But despite the fact that Micky, Peter and Davy had repeatedly denied rumors of their friends' marital woes when asked during interviews in the past few months, the story had gotten out, and Isabel had the feeling they were going to be confronted with it if they were actually recognized by the news hounds.

At first she breathed a small sigh of relief as they faced the seemingly endless stretch of cameras and microphones between themselves and the entrance to the club; bad boy Christian Slater had arrived ahead of them, and the entire press corps swarmed over him, ignoring the older couple, whom they probably assumed had accidentally wandered into the wrong place, she thought with a wry smile.

Almost made it. She instinctively picked up her pace as they drew closer and closer to the door. A few more steps—

"Mr. Nesmith!"

Isabel inwardly cringed; the dreaded moment had arrived. Someone had—amazingly enough—recognized him.

"Is it true you cheated on your wife?" the same voice called out.

Well, don't hold anything back, she thought irritably. What right did these people have to shout rude, intrusive questions about people's personal lives? She glanced around, trying to identify the source of the queries, but individuality was blurred in the sea of faces surrounding them. 

"Have you spoken to your mistress lately?"

"Did you know she has a book deal?"

"Are you getting a divorce?"

More voices had joined the chorus, and Mike suddenly grabbed her hand, almost dragging her to the entrance, obviously planning to ignore the presumptuous reporters, but Isabel dug in her heels, turning to face the direction the questions came from.

"He doesn't have a mistress," she said, her voice calm but intense, and she noticed several reporters scribbling frantically. "He has a wife, and it's going to stay that way."

With that, she rejoined him at the door, her stoic expression matching his until they were safely inside, meshing with the rest of the crowd. But once they were out of sight of the meddlesome press, Mike pulled her aside, out of the way of the teeming mass of people swarming around the interior of the club. 

"Did you mean that?" he asked, and whether he realized he was doing it or not, Isabel felt his fingers tighten around her hand. 

"Mean what?" She turned her best innocent look on him, trying to avoid answering the question she knew he was asking. She knew what her answer would be; for the first time, she wouldn't have to hide behind vague, empty words or elusive "I don't know"s. But that didn't mean she was ready to say it aloud. 

Unfortunately, he didn't seem inclined to let her off the hook despite the fact that they were in public, only a few feet and a door separating them from scoop-hungry members of the press. 

"That I have a wife and it's goin to stay that way. Did you mean that, or were you just sayin it for their benefit?" he asked pointedly, inclining his head towards the entrance and the media throng that lay beyond. 

She hesitated, not wanting to say the words. To say them meant they were out there where she couldn't hide them or take them back again. He would know the truth. He would have ammunition. 

But instinctively she knew this was a pivotal moment; he wouldn't have asked unless he needed to know, needed some sort of reassurance about their future. If she withheld it out of fear, she could end up hurting herself and him. 

"Well?" he demanded impatiently as she continued to watch him in silence, her dark brown eyes wide and somber. "Is it true?" 

Steeling herself, she nodded. "Looks like it's going to turn out that way to me." 

He didn't speak; he merely gazed down at her, his expression inscrutable. She forced a tremulous smile, hoping she hadn't made a mistake—and then he reached out and cradled her cheek in the palm of his hand, smiling ever so slightly in return. 

That was how Rob found them a short time later as he threaded his way through the crowd, his cheerful greeting dying on his lips when he realized his parents were in their own little world at the moment. 

"Oh, man!" he exclaimed, the wide grin that lit up his face belying his querelous words. "I wanted you guys to patch things up, but please! Don't turn Gomez and Morticia on me in _public_!" 

~*~*~ 

The sun was sinking into the ocean, casting its flaming tendrils across the water as Isabel padded on bare feet through the living room, headed for the deck; she'd gone upstairs almost two hours earlier to take a long bubble bath and relax. But even though she had unwound physically, breathing in the lavender-scented steam that rose from the hot water, her mind had not been at rest. She had come thisclose to asking him to join her, which was surprising, to say the least. And what shocked her even more was that deep down, she was kicking herself for not following through.

But she knew the time wasn't quite right yet. They had taken the first tentative steps towards reestablishing their bond and were well on the way to solidifying it, but she didn't want to rush into anything prematurely. 

So she lolled in her solitary bath, replenishing the water whenever it cooled too much and letting herself replay the pleasant memories of the past couple of weeks as many times as she wished. They were the harbingers of many more good times to come. She was feeling more and more certain of that.

Her palms and soles of her feet resembled prunes now, but she felt utterly at peace as she scanned the area for any sign of Mike. He wasn't in the kitchen or the make-shift studio/office, and he wasn't in the living room. That meant he'd either left or—

She glanced outside, and sure enough, there he was, lounging in a chair on the deck, but he wasn't watching the glorious sunset that was unfurling right in front of him. Instead, his head was bent over a guitar, and she could see his fingers dancing across the strings. As she drew nearer, she caught faint snatches of the melody—a slow, almost mournful tune that she didn't recognize. 

Her plan had been to let him know that she was out of the tub and that she would be upstairs in her office working on her manuscript, but seeing him play made her realize just how long it had been since she'd sat down and listened to him in the past few years, much less played _with_ him. In fact, she had only made the effort to sit in on a couple of practice sessions while they were working on their latest album—a far cry from the days when she had found great pleasure in curling up on the couch as she sat through every minute of their practices. 

After they were married, he and Peter both helped her move from a timid beginning guitar player to a half-way decent musician; she and Mike had spent many evenings just sitting around running through whatever songs popped into their heads, Monkees tunes or not. But then she had gotten caught up in her own creative work, in raising Rob, and those times had drifted into the past...

Impulsively, she raced upstairs and snagged her old guitar case from the back of the closet; it was coated with a fine layer of dust, and she shook her head, disgusted with herself that she'd let such an enjoyable pastime slip away. But tonight—and in nights to come—she wouldn't cloister herself in front of her computer, leaving him alone in another part of the house entirely. No, she would take time for him—for them both. 

He glanced up at her with surprise liberally mixed with pleasure when she walked out to drop into a chair next to him; she noted with some amusement that he'd immediately switched from the melancholy-sounding ballad he'd been playing to the opening chords of "Last Train to Clarksville"—like she wouldn't notice the sudden, complete 180 degree shift in tempo, she thought with an amused snort.

But she let it pass, unfastened the latches on her case and pulled out the long-abandoned instrument instead, lowering her head near the strings as she began tuning. 

"This is unusual," he remarked, raising one eyebrow at her.

"It wasn't always," she replied, giving him a sidelong glance, and he nodded, his expression somber.

"So—" He turned brisk and business-like when she settled the guitar in her lap and looked at him, indicating she was ready, for which she was grateful; apparently he didn't want to dwell on anything potentially depressing either. "What do you want to start with?"

"Don't care," she said, grimacing a little as she played a couple of experimental chords to see how much she had forgotten. "But I'll probably end up with bandages." 

She rubbed her fingertips together, already knowing she was in trouble. Just that little bit of contact with the strings had abraded the sensitive pads, and she would have to limit herself until they regained the calluses she'd once sported. 

He laughed softly, his expression mock-sympathetic. "That's what you get for letting yourself get out of practice," he lectured sternly, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

"You know, I heard 'Clarksville' on the radio the other day," she remarked. "Talk about flashbacks," she added, chuckling. "I kept remembering the day you guys came back from cutting the single. Even _you_ were giddy!"

He nodded, an impish twinkle in his eyes. "Yeah, I remember that—and I remember the party we threw the day it was released."

"Oh, yes!" Isabel clapped her hands together, delight suffusing her features at the recollection. "You guys invited _everybody_!"

"Everyone we knew, everyone in the neighborhood, strangers off the street—"

"Even Babbitt didn't care when it was still going strong at 3 o'clock in the morning when he realized you'd be able to pay the rent on time from then on." 

A mischievous look darted across his face then, and he returned his attention to his guitar, quickly running through the intro to a song that she could _never_ forget for any number of reasons.

"Remember that one?" he quizzed, smiling slightly.

"'Mary, Mary'!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I remember _that_ all right," she nodded with an exaggerated grimace. "I remember that concert in '86—"

He laughed outright then, and she guessed that he'd been thinking of the same incident.

"I swear to you I had no idea Micky was goin to do that," he said, but the roguish gleam in his eyes made her distrust his words.

"So you've always said," she replied, casting a doubtful look at him. "I could've killed him—"

"Well, we didn't think anything about it because he does that kind of thing all the time," Mike shrugged. "I thought he was gettin a prop."

"Well, he didn't," she retorted acidly as she recalled the total and complete mortification she felt when Micky hauled her on-stage, introduced her to seven thousand screaming fans as the original Mary, Mary—and proceeded to sing the entire number to her, going so overboard even _Davy_ had yelled that he smelled ham. Peter had been draped over his keyboard, laughing so hard he'd been unable to play as Micky got on his knees at her feet; he'd ended up laid out on the stage, clutching her leg, mostly to keep her from running. 

Although he hadn't broken on-stage, Mike had been absolutely _no_ help afterward, refusing to let her shed a single drop of Micky's blood despite her furious threats, and she was fairly certain she'd heard him collapse into hysterics as soon as the dressing room door shut behind him.

And she also remembered why Mike had written it in the first place—as a catharsis after the fight they'd had when he met her grandmother for the first time. The fight that had nearly broken them up because they had both been too stubborn to admit how they really felt. Too stubborn—and too afraid. Well, perhaps they had both learned enough not to let history repeat itself...

He snickered quietly, obviously still thinking of the concert as he picked out the notes of another familiar tune, and she tilted her head as she listened, trying to think of the name. 

"That's one of Davy's," she said slowly. "The one about the two girls."

Mike nodded, and she continued, pleased that her memory was serving her so well. "I can't remember if you or Micky wrote it, but whoever it was was being a smartass. And Davy called the bluff and sang it in just about every show for a long time."

"It was Micky," he said, his face solemn, and she made a dubious noise.

"Uh-huh, and he'd probably say it was _you_ ," she scoffed. 

He grinned broadly, but didn't reply, launching into "Circle Sky" instead, knowing she'd be delighted. That had always been one of her favorites, and she closed her eyes as she listened, picturing him as he had been in their first movie—the white suit, the sideburns, still dark-haired, still a skinny beanpole. That moment, that image of him—of _all_ of them—was captured on film, and she could see it anytime she wanted. But the moment itself was gone, never to be repeated again.

We have the ability and the technology to capture Time, she thought, but we can't hold it. It races on, and we can't ever afford to forget that...

She opened her eyes then and looked at him, seeing the younger version transposed on the man who sat before her now—but very briefly, and then it was gone. Thirty years, and now he was as grey-haired as she, and the long, thick waves were a thing of the past, replaced by a much shorter cut. The sideburns had turned into a beard, and the scrawny, gangly youth had developed into a stockier man. Even his voice had changed over the years.

But those sleepy bedroom eyes were exactly the same, she thought with smug satisfaction. And the smile—when he chose to show it. The creativity, the intelligence, the quick, sometimes biting and caustic wit—those were all the traits that had drawn her to him to begin with, and they captivated her still. 

The song ended, and she snapped back to attention, suddenly filled with curiosity about the tune she'd heard him playing when she first walked out. He didn't seem to be in a melancholy mood, so why had he been playing such a slow, sad tune?

"What were you playing when I came out?" she asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"'Clarksville'?" he asked innocently, but he relented when she gave him an "oh, please" look in response. "It's one of Rob's," he admitted. "A new one."

"Really?" She lifted her eyebrows, surprised by the revelation. She had never known him to play one of their son's pieces except when Rob specifically asked for accompaniment. "I didn't think I'd heard it before. What is it?"

He hesitated, and she could tell he didn't want to discuss it, which of course made her that much more determined to find out more. And then Mike grimaced, obviously figuring out he wasn't going to be able to evade her questions. 

"You want me to play it again?"

"Very much," she replied quietly, setting her own instrument aside and relaxing in her chair, prepared to listen.

"He calls it 'Mary-belle'," he told her as he began the opening notes.

Uh-oh...

Then Mike began to sing softly, not looking at her, but she couldn't tear her gaze away from him, feeling her eyes growing wider and wider by the second.

"Do you believe in love at first sight? I know for a fact that I do Because I'm still reelin' From that wonderful feelin' I got when I first looked at you.

"You're so warm and beautiful Even after all these years But now you're the one cryin' And I feel like I'm dyin' I'm the cause of all your tears

"We got a once-in-a-lifetime love The type people long to find Now I know whom to choose And what I stand to lose Please don't leave our love behind

"I was a fool, wrapped up in myself How could I have been so blind So wrapped up in my pride I just tossed you aside I must have been out of my mind

"We got a once-in-a-lifetime love The type people long to find Now I know whom to choose And what I stand to lose Please don't leave our love behind

"Do you believe in love at first sight? I know for a fact that I do Because I'm still reelin' From that wonderful feelin' I got when I first looked at you."**

Tears beaded on her lashes as the last, lingering notes faded away in the still night air; the silence was almost palpable, and Isabel sat frozen, unable to move or speak for an eternal moment.

"Why were you singing that?" she asked, her voice barely squeezing through the constriction in her throat. "Did he ask you to work with it?" she pressed, knowing Rob occasionally asked for advice when he couldn't fix something to his satisfaction.

"No..." He gave a little shrug and glanced out at the ocean. "I was thinkin about our conversation from the other night...about when we met, and...it just seemed appropriate."

"Very."

And it was several minutes before she composed herself enough to suggest another—much more cheerful—tune.

~*~*~ 

The late afternoon sun soaked into her skin, heating her all the way to the core of her being, and she sprawled indolently on her stomach as she sunbathed on the beach, basking in the warmth as it seeped into her muscles and joints. Heat therapy was a _good_ thing, she thought with a contented sigh. And she always felt like she looked healthier with a bit of a tan.

Things were definitely improving around the Nesmith house; the atmosphere was considerably lighter, a great deal of the heavy tension dispelled by a new-found easiness and teasing.

She couldn't remember the last time they'd played mind games like that, deliberately taunting each other. She remembered late night phone calls when he'd been on the road touring or on location with a film or shooting a new video—there had been plenty of teasing then! Stolen moments behind partially closed doors when Rob was learning to walk and wanted to follow Mummy _everywhere_ ; whispered promises of what would take place after Rob had been put to bed, usually delivered at the most inopportune moments.

On one particular morning Mike had slipped up behind her while she was spooning strained bananas into Rob's tiny rosebud mouth, wrapped his arms around her waist, pulled her tight against him and murmured just two little words into her ear—and that had been enough to keep her in a heightened state of arousal for the rest of the day. She felt a slow flush creeping up her body even now at the pleasant memories. It had been years perhaps since they'd done anything like that. They had become complacent, and it had been their undoing.

But it seemed that was all changing now.

She smiled and nestled her cheek against the rough beach towel, closing her eyes and allowing herself to drift off, lulled into a peaceful doze by the sun, the roar of the waves...

And then suddenly her tranquillity was shattered as a tidal wave of ice-cold water hit her back, and she sprang up like a jack-in-the-box, shrieking at the top of her lungs.

"You—!" She stared up at Mike, who stood over her, empty bucket in hand, grinning with unrepentant glee. "You—you—you—!"

"What?" he protested, widening his eyes as if he were innocent as any angel. "I was just tryin to help. I thought you might need coolin off."

That was Mrs. Lovett's scrub bucket, she realized as she glared up at him, her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. Which meant that he had had to take the time and effort to _find_ it, fill it with freezing cold water—which meant ice may very well have been involved—and lug it out here to dump on her.

Premeditation. Pure and simple. 

And that called for revenge.

"And you were _so_ right," she cooed in her best honeyed tone.

He immediately looked wary—as well he should, she thought, a roguish twinkle in her eye. She scooped up two handfuls of sand and tossed them against her wet skin, the tiny granules clinging to her tenaciously, just as she intended. She scrambled to her feet and, holding her arms open wide, started towards him.

"Why don't you come over here, and I'll give you a great big ol' hug to show my gratitude?" she offered, knowing his response would be exactly what it was.

He threw up both hands in a warding off gesture, already backing away from her. "Oh, no—you stay away—"

She grinned outright, picking up her pace. He _hated_ being gritty with sand; that was the worst part of the beach for him, especially if he was wearing street clothes as he was now. No doubt he'd intended to pull his little stunt and vanish because he hadn't changed into a bathing suit; instead, he wore jeans so faded they were almost white—she could just imagine how soft and worn they would feel beneath her fingers—a black "Spinal Tap" tee shirt that Micky had given him to match one he owned himself, and he was barefoot. 

He took off running down the beach then with her in pursuit, but she knew from the start she'd never be able to match the stride of _those_ long legs. And Peter was right: he could run fast for an old guy.

No, she would have to resort to more devious measures... She faked a stumble, letting out a sharp, pained cry as she tumbled into the sand; the outburst got his attention, and he stopped dead in his tracks, whirling around to see what had happened. 

Pretending to ignore him, she clutched her right ankle and rocked back and forth, grimacing as if she were in agony; Mike sprinted back to her, dropping to one knee in the sand beside her, his face suffused with worry. 

Oh, this was _too_ easy, she silently smirked.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice laced with concern. "Here—let me see. Did you twist it? Did you hear anything snap?" 

"No—" she replied faintly. "I'll be fine. I just—need to—rest a moment—"

He leaned over and reached for her ankle, probably intending to check for a break—a most unwise move. Without warning, she sprang, shoving the heels of both hands against his chest and throwing her weight on top of him as he went down. Within a matter of seconds, he was flat on his back, and she was straddling his waist, pinning his shoulders down as she grinned at his shocked expression.

Then the tide rushed in, rippling up the sand and soaking him from the middle of his back on down. He gave an outraged roar as the frigid salt water rushed over and underneath him, and Isabel's laughter rang out loud and strong enough to frighten off some of the more curious seagulls wheeling nearby.

"How do you like _that_?" she crowed triumphantly, and he screwed up his face with distaste, obviously hating the mess he now found himself in. But he brought it on himself, she thought self-righteously—and then let out a startled squeak when he grabbed her, clasping her against his chest, and rolled them both over until suddenly _she_ was pinned beneath _him_.

"I like _this_ better," he murmured as he nestled his hips between her thighs—such a deliciously familiar sensation that made her feel as if her very bones were melting from the contact. And she had been worried they wouldn't be able to rekindle the spark...

HAH!

_Spark, my foot—this was a conflagration_! she thought as she gazed into those sleepy brown eyes that were now alight with passion—and all for _her_. It was a look she hadn't seen in ages, and she knew it sparkled in her own eyes as well. 

"Me too," she whispered, wrapping her arms around him tight. He appeared to forget about the grit coating her body, her arms, her hands—it didn't matter as he captured her mouth in a possessive, demanding kiss, one which she met with equal fervor. If he was claiming her as his own now, then she was reclaiming him as well. He was _hers_ , and he would be until death parted them. 

She slipped her hands under the wet tee-shirt, skimming her fingers over every inch of skin she could reach, gently massaging the muscles she felt working in his back, tracing the length of his spine. With a low growl deep in his throat, he began a trail of burning kisses that singed her skin down the length of her neck to the sensitive hollow at the base of her throat, and she gasped, tangling her legs with his to imprison him completely. 

She felt him easing down the straps of her one-piece bathing suit, and she lowered her arms to help speed up the process. Her mind was going faintly buzzy with the desire engulfing her, but one thought stood out clear: if this kept up, they were going to end up making love right there in the sand. Well...It _was_ their own private stretch of beach... 

"Mr. Nesmith!"

Mrs. Lovett's shrill voice carried on the wind, destroying their idyllic moment completely.

"Oh, hell—"

"Dammit—"

Isabel groaned as he rolled away from her, feeling the loss already; she longed to be able to reach and call him back, to ignore the housekeeper's summons.

"Mr. Nesmith—you have a phone call!" Mrs. Lovett shouted again. "Says it's important!"

"I've been expecting this one," he said apologetically as he rose to his feet and extended one hand to help her up.

She lay there a moment, uncertain that she could actually manage standing upright. Her legs were shaky—her entire _body_ was shaky!—and she wasn't sure they would support her. 

"This had better be important," she grumbled as she sat up, straightened her bathing suit, slipped her hand into his and let him pull her up.

He tugged just hard enough to make her stumble against him, then caught her around the waist, holding her close.

"It is. Otherwise, she could have yelled 'til doomsday, and I wouldn't have left you."

Her breath caught in her throat as she stared up at him, seeing the intensity in his eyes for herself—he meant that. Every word. And the realization of that alone was enough to make her weak with desire for him.

"Well, you'd better go then," she replied, trying to keep her voice light. "I'll be along in a bit."

"Okay—" He released her and turned to leave, but very very reluctantly, she noted with no small degree of pleasure. She had her husband back.

He was all hers once again—and this time he was going to _stay_ hers and hers alone.

~*~*~ 

"Well, you said you wanted to make the plans for tonight," Mike reminded her as he strolled into the living room where she stood waiting for him, her hands behind her back and a wide smile lighting her face. "So what're we goin to do?"

Isabel licked her lips, a tight coil of anticipation wrapping itself around her stomach; she had _two_ sets of plans, actually. One would be no problem, but the other...that would require a little more courage. She wanted this to be a break-through night for them in more ways than one; she wanted to see if they could recapture the bonfire that had ignited between them on the beach. 

Oh, that had been absolute magic! she thought, forcing herself to resist closing her eyes and groaning at the mere memory. But since then, they hadn't had the time or opportunity to repeat the experience; her agent had flown out for a couple of days to negotiate her new contract, and he'd gotten caught up in business matters of his own. But when she _was_ anywhere near him these days, she felt a new heightened sense of awareness of his mere presence. She _knew_ when he walked into a room again—knew it without even seeing or hearing him enter, and her breathing accelerated of its own accord, her heart beat faster; if she didn't know better, she thought with more than a little amusement, she would say she was falling in love.

"How about a movie?" she suggested.

"Sure." He shrugged carelessly. "What's playin?"

"A double feature." With a smug grin, she whipped out the videocassettes she'd been hiding behind her back and waved them in front of him. " _The Producers_ and _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_!" she exclaimed.

"Cool!" He took the tapes from her, scanning the back covers, and his obviously delighted reaction pleased her to no end. "We haven't seen these in ages," he remarked, and her insides jumped at his casual use of "we." Then he looked at her, devastating her with a mischievous smile. "Best of all, I don't have to change," he added, gesturing at his ultra-casual attire that consisted of those faded jeans again and a black/blue/green plaid flannel shirt pulled over a plain black tee shirt. For a man who had always been so careful to look like Mr. Tie-Wearing Professional in public, she thought with a wry smile, he certainly bummed out at home.

Not that she looked much better, she had to admit. At least _his_ jeans didn't have a hole forming in the knee, and her shirt was so worn that the picture on the front was looking less like Shakespeare and more like the Ghost of Hamlet's Father.

"Ditto," she conceded. "That was part of the appeal." That and the fact that we'd be totally alone together, she added silently.

The one and only TV in the house was located in the back den, and she'd already gotten everything prepared. The wide-screen was on but muted, and the lights were all off, the only illumination in the room being the flickering glow from the TV screen. She'd already popped a large bowl of popcorn and had it waiting for them, and she'd also spread out a blanket and three or four pillows on the floor in front of the couch rather than _on_ it. They had given up trying to watch movies together on the sofa years and years before because they had never been able to find a position that allowed them both to see without either an arm or leg falling asleep or getting a crick in the neck. Eventually they gave up trying and fell into the habit of sitting on the floor instead with their backs propped against the couch so they could both maintain contact _and_ watch comfortably.

He was quick to grab two pillows and, stuffing them behind his back, he settled in place with his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle; in fact, he was already munching popcorn while she moved to the TV.

"Thanks for all your help," she remarked, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she slid _The Producers_ out of its box and bent over to pop it in the VCR.

"Hey, this was _your_ idea," he replied. "You get to do all the work." He paused, and she could hear the laughter in his voice when he added, "Besides, I like the view."

She straightened abruptly, giving him a stern look over her shoulder—but she didn't mean it. Oh, definitely not. Once the tape was rolling, she hurried over and plopped down beside him, automatically reaching for the popcorn only to find it missing. Frowning, she glanced around and discovered he had moved the bowl so that it was on his right rather than his left—thus no longer positioned between them.

"Hey—no fair—you're hoggin' the popcorn," she protested, but he just shrugged and didn't offer to move it back. "Oh, c'mon, I've got to reach all the way across you to get it—" She stopped abruptly when she realized what she'd just said. 

Hhm. Maybe she shouldn't protest too much after all.

And the "no shit, Sherlock" look on his face made her shut her mouth with a snap, all thoughts of complaining banished for good.

Nerves made her keep her distance at first; she still felt a little awkward and shy about making any obvious advances, and so she maintained a few inches of space between them, feeling ridiculously like an antsy teenager wondering if her boyfriend was going to try to put his arm around her or not.

He didn't, but ultimately it didn't matter; by the time Gene Wilder started his rapturous dance around the gushing fountain while Zero Mostel cheered him on, their shared laughter had relaxed Isabel to the point that—quite without thinking—she slipped into her habitual movie-watching position. Namely, snuggling close, resting her head on his shoulder, draping one arm across his chest and one leg across his lap. She felt him move his head to look down at her, and she smiled slightly, wondering what he was thinking. Wondering if he was going to pull her closer or push her away.

A minute passed, and he did nothing, and she could still feel the weight of his gaze on her. Intrigued, she tilted her chin up so she could see his face and found him looking at her with a mixture of tenderness and affection that she hadn't seen in...far too long. 

When had he stopped looking at her like that, and how could she have failed to notice?

And why oh why hadn't she mourned the loss?

Their eyes met and held, and she felt her own features soften in response as everything clicked in her head.

She _had_ fallen in love with him—for the second time. The trust she thought was gone forever was now firmly in place once more; she believed him when he said he would never cheat on her again because she understood what had driven him to it in the first place—she'd almost done it herself after all—and now they _both_ knew what to do to keep it from happening a second time. She had told Micky the truth: their relationship wasn't the same—the innocence was lost, and it could never be restored—but in many ways it was better, and they were stronger as individuals and as a couple for the bitter experience.

The last wall crumbled, and she let him see her face devoid of masks and shields, wanting him to know, to recognize how she felt. Instead of answering in words, he leaned down and kissed her—infinitely gentle. The possessiveness he'd exhibited on the beach was gone, but this loving touch stirred her just as strongly, and she felt her last remaining fears melt away. This was right. This was the way things should have been all along.

She slid her hand up from his waist, across his chest, until it came to rest in the curve between his neck and shoulder, and he caressed her leg which was lying across his lap as the light, almost playful kisses continued. Gradually, he eased away from her lips, making her shiver with delight as he teased her cheek and neck with his beard; she willingly tilted her chin back, giving him free access to that deliciously sensitive area. 

At last, he reached up, cradling her skull in his palm as he returned for a deeper, more intense kiss, the mating of tongues foreshadowing what she knew was certainly to follow; there was no further doubt in her mind or her heart, and she was eager to make their recommitment complete.

Swiftly she uncurled herself from the floor and straddled his lap, winding her arms around him; it was her turn to tease, and she did so, homing in unerringly on the pleasure point beneath his ear and nibbling it lightly as she trailed her fingernails along the back of his neck—and exulting when she felt his body respond. 

He groaned softly, his fingers digging into her flesh as she began to rock her hips ever so slightly—more foreshadowing of what she wanted. He captured her lips, and the gentleness was gone, replaced by a burning hunger that transferred itself to Isabel, making her entire body ignite. She wanted him—oh, yes, she did—she wanted him _now_... 

Her fingers trembled as she grasped the lapels of his flannel shirt and pushed it off his shoulders and down his arms, waiting while he wriggled out of it and impatiently tossed it aside, not even noticing where it landed. And then she went straight for the kill by nuzzling the soft skin of his inner elbow and making tiny figure eights with her tongue along that sensitive crease—a move that had never failed to make him start breathing harder, and it worked like a reliable charm now. 

He captured her face between his hands and kissed her again, and she let the sensation go to her head, all coherent thought fleeing for the time being. Then suddenly he broke off, pulling back just enough so that he could fix her with an intense, smoldering gaze.

She stared back, aware of her own accelerated breathing at this point, and she was suddenly terrified he was going to stop. What if he didn't find her desirable any longer? What if he'd realized he simply wasn't interested? What if—? 

And then she found herself gathered in his arms—the film completely forgotten as it now played to an empty room—as he carried her out; suffused with relief, she immediately became so engrossed in nibbling his earlobe that she barely noticed he'd stopped in the hallway, but when it finally sunk in that they were no longer moving, she quit teasing long enough to give him a questioning look.

"Where?" he asked simply.

Ah. He was giving her a choice—the opportunity to keep her bedroom a private haven—but she no longer needed a refuge to hide in.

"Go on up," she whispered. 

Moments later, he deposited her carefully on the bed and stretched out beside her, reaching for the hem of her tee-shirt then; without thinking, she lifted her hand as if to stop him, clenching it into a fist when she realized what she had almost done, but it was too late—he had noticed the gesture.

"What is it?" 

She glanced away, feeling her cheeks sting with heat; the only light in the room came from the table lamp she'd left on in her adjoining office, and she was grateful he couldn't see her blushing in the semi-darkness.

"This—isn't a young, firm body," she said, trying to make her voice sound light and careless. "I hope you're not disappointed or—" She didn't dare finished for fear it may turn out to be true.

"Turned off?" he completed the sentence for her, and she nodded reluctantly. "Does this feel turned off to you?" he asked, pulling her against him—and eliminating any question she might have had on _that_ subject.

She shook her head, biting back a smile, and he gave her a "well, then" look.

"I'm wearin the rose-colored glasses again," he said quietly before slipping his hands beneath her shirt, caressing her warm skin along the way as he eased it up and over her head. She felt a single twinge of nervousness when he gazed down at her, but it was quickly dispelled by the desire she saw in his eyes, the look of rapt wonder as he ran his fingers down the length of her arms, across the plain of her stomach, over the swell of her breasts. 

They undressed each other slowly, removing each garment as if it revealed a glorious treasure, and Isabel reveled in the heady sensation of skin-on-skin. There was nothing—no feeling in the world like it, and she feasted on him leisurely with her hands and mouth, seeking out the sensitive places she knew would bring him pleasure, enjoying her power, and writhing beneath his skillful touch when he showed her that he too had forgotten nothing. 

_Mine_ , she thought as their bodies became one; she matched his rhythm with the ease of long practice, feeling as much the possessor as the possessed as the pleasure/pain tension coiled ever tighter within. _He's all mineminemine again. The old broad's got some life in her yet..._

And then the world shattered, and all coherant thought fled from her mind. 

~*~*~ 

She could tell by his steady, even breathing that he had drifted off, but despite all the energy she had expended over the past couple of hours, she was still wide-awake, her mind racing as she replayed the events of the night.

A couple of _hours_ she thought with no little amazement. In the early days, they had often lolled away entire afternoons in bed together; she could remember prolonged sessions of exquisite love-making in her tiny bedroom, no noise except the vague roar of the ocean just outside and over the dunes, the occasional squawk of seagulls, and their own soft sounds of pleasure. Even their between-rounds conversation had always been hushed as if they didn't want to risk shattering the idyllic peace with a word spoken too loudly.

During their first few years of marriage, they still devoted literally hours to each other, and Mike had frequently grumbled that if he showed up at the studio the least bit groggy or bleary-eyed, he was subjected to endless cracks about his nocturnal activities. Isabel had pointed out with annoying pragmatism that they could always cut back if he would prefer getting more sleep, but a "you must be _joking_ " look was the only response she got.

But after Rob was born and the group's collective and individual careers began to flourish, they had spent less time with each other in many ways, frequently settling—that word again—for what few moments they could snatch together amid their mutually packed schedules. It had always been good between them, but she had to admit that 20-30 minutes here and there was nowhere near as emotionally satisfying as the marathons they used to have.

It was the cuddling she missed most of all, the closeness she felt as they held each other and talked quietly while recharging their batteries before round two...three...four...eight...Those had been some of the best conversations they had ever had; all shields were down, all walls were gone, and they were both at their most open and affectionate.

He had always teased _her_ about being a closet sensualist, but _he_ was a closet cuddler. She had found out quickly that once she got him beneath the sheets, Mr. Hands-Off couldn't get close enough—and some things never changed, she thought with a mental chuckle. Even now he was snuggled against her back spoon-fashion, molded along the entire length of her body, one arm draped over her waist, his legs tangled with hers.

Smiling with pure feminine satisfaction, she began idly stroking the back of his hand, and suddenly the long fingers that had been dangling limply in repose sprang to life, spreading out in a silent invitation that she didn't refuse. Lacing her fingers with his, she squeezed his hand, receiving an answering squeeze in return.

"I thought you were asleep," she whispered, unconsciously falling into their old habit.

"Just dozin," he murmured drowsily. 

"I'm not sleepy," she remarked, and his soft chuckle vibrated against her back.

"Is that a hint?" he asked, obviously amused.

"Mmmm, could be," she purred, lightly raking her fingernails along his inner arm and smiling when she felt his sudden intake of breath. 

"Mary-belle—" There was a hesitancy in his voice that got her attention, and she flipped over on her other side to face him, surprised to see worry lurking in the depths of his eyes.

"What is it, love?" she asked softly, resting her hand against his cheek; he clasped it and pressed a kiss to the palm.

"What now? Was this just—"

"Oh, no—" she interrupted before he could go any farther. "This wasn't 'just' anything." She paused, knowing what he needed to hear, and she took a deep breath as she prepared to say it, to bare her soul to him for her own benefit as well as his. "The past is forgotten," she told him, her expression mirroring the seriousness of her words. "What happened with both of us was a tragedy of circumstances, and it's over. I believe you. I trust you. And I'm in love with you again—"

Anything further she might have said was cut off as he pulled her into a fierce, hungry kiss, and she succumbed once more to the sensual delight of skin-on-skin, flesh-on-flesh.


	5. Chapter 5

The sun streamed in bright and warm even filtered through the ivory sheers, filling the room with golden morning light as the phone jangled unexpectedly, startling Isabel out of a deep slumber. She moaned and burrowed under her pillow, but it kept up its insistant summons, and since it was her private line, she felt obligated to answer. It might be her agent calling because she had hit a snag in the contract negotiations. Or it might be one of the kids; the entire pack of Monkee offspring had made the unofficial decision years ago to adopt Uncle Mike and Aunt Isabel as surrogate parents as well, perhaps to make up for the fact that they couldn't have any more children after Rob. He was born premature, but he had survived—fortunately Isabel had as well, although it had been touch-and-go for a while—a miracle after the two miscarriages she had suffered before him. 

Then she remembered that the phone was on the nightstand on Mike's side of the bed, and since he was once again using her as a human teddy bear, she nudged him with her elbow.

"You get it," she mumbled.

"Wha—? Why me?" he groused sleepily, but he was already rolling over—and her back instantly regretted the loss of his body heat.

She heard a couple of muttered curses as he groped for the phone, then he finally found it and picked up the receiver, making no effort to clear the grogginess from his voice as he answered. If she hadn't been so exhausted, she would have laughed; neither of them were morning people, but she had a feeling they'd just broken their own record for sleeping in late. 

"H'lo?...No, it's the cabana boy. Whaddaya want?...Hold on."

The bedsprings bounced as he rolled onto his back and nudged her shoulder.

"You asleep?" he asked.

"Yes," she groaned, covering her eyes with one hand as she tried to block out the obnoxious light.

"She's asleep...Uh-huh...Oh, shut up."

There was more cursing and fumbling on the other side of the bed, then with a relieved sigh, he nestled close again, resting his cheek against her hair.

"That was Micky," he informed her. "He wanted to talk to you."

"About what?" She was vaguely curious, but not enough to jump up and call him back any time soon.

"Dunno. Said it could wait and you could call him after we finished—and I quote—'shaggin each other senseless in a vain attempt to make up for lost time'," he said, and she felt him smiling.

"That might take a while..." she replied, managing to snicker as she considered the latent stirrings she was already feeling despite the rigorous and extensive activity of the night before.

"Then he started singin 'Oh, What A Night'," he added, his voice laced with equal measures of amusement and annoyance. "Well, the good thing is we don't have to worry about tellin anyone—the entire clan oughta know everything within the next five minutes."

"We'll have to call Rob ourselves, though," she noted.

That would be one happy kid, she thought. He'd always expressed sympathy that bordered on pity for Peter and Davy's kids because they had had to suffer through their parents' divorces, and Isabel had always gotten the feeling that having parents who were still together had been a source not only of security for him but also of pride. 

"Yeah—later," he replied firmly.

She smiled, relaxing in his arms again, a feeling that was both familiar and brand-new; they were rediscovering each other, and she was thoroughly enjoying the preliminary explorations.

"It's been nice being so close to him," she added as she let herself start to drift off again. "I'll miss him, but I'm ready to go home."

There was dead silence behind her, and she roused a little when she realized he'd gone utterly still. She turned a little in his arms, just enough that she could catch a glimpse of his face, and saw that he was staring at her with a mixture of surprise and undiluted pleasure.

"You're sure?" he asked almost hesitantly. "I don't want to rush you." 

She rolled over and nuzzled the tip of her nose against his in a playful Eskimo kiss. "As far as I'm concerned, you're stuck with me again until death do us part, so if you have any objections, you better speak now," she declared with mock-solemnity, relishing the delightful security of knowing exactly what his answer would be.

"No objections," he replied, just as she knew he would. "None at all."

~*~*~ 

It's not too late To turn this ship around To sail into the wind my love Before we run aground It's not too late To say that I love you And it's not too late for you, my love, To say you love me too (It's not too late) 

—from the Monkees album _Justus_

~*~*~ 

**Lyrics by Enola Jones.


End file.
